The Lost Vengeance
by TrailingEducation
Summary: Vivec's saddest and most forgotten tale. The living God of Vvardenfell is a hero to his people, singing and writing epics no other hero can boast; but this is one song he will never put to words. Even immortal hearts can bleed.
1. Of Anguish

**The Lost Vengeance**

It is not a tale found in common lore. This story of regret, of family and betrayal, is known only to a few select scholars, each one older than even the oldest of noble houses. This tale, though heartbreakingly beautiful, is all but lost, and few people truly know why. But I, Dirith Nelelor, have finally heard enough to stitch the fragments together – not without enormous pains, mind you.

When first I approached the woman who would inevitably tell me the first of this tale, she said to me, "Hush, child, do not toy with forces beyond you. This is a terrible story you seek."

Naturally, my first reaction was anger. I'm a wizard of House Telvanni, for Vivec's sake! I won't fall apart at the mere mention of strife. But when I had settled down and my anger had subsided, the woman, with scores of wrinkles running down her face, smiled at me, and she said:

"Very well, then. I will tell you my part of the tale, and if you choose to seek further I will tell you the name of the next Keeper of Vengeance, who may or may not tell his part. Just know, before you hear it, that this is an awful burden to bear on one's shoulders. Do you truly wish to know the Anguish, so badly that you would forever cloud your mind with it?"

I agreed. I so wish I hadn't.

But once I had heard the first I desperately needed to hear the second, and so on until, finally, I had heard the whole of it. The tale was such that I felt a terrible sense of loss once it was over, and after my audience with the last Keeper I was said to have vanished, though where I went I could not tell you. The memory is so far away, as if had in another life. I was found near Ash Mountain by my uncle, who said I was raving mad, struck with a powerful fever, which did not break for a number of weeks. Even after the illness subsided, however, I felt empty, like a part of my being had been ripped away and thrown from me. The first Keeper tells me that this is the pain of Vivec, and now I must wear it with me wherever I go, just as He does.

But I cannot bear the hollowness that this has left me with. The Anguish has found me, buried itself within me, and now not even the warmth of the sun nor the smell of my favourite meal can stir a smile on my face. If I am to suffer the weight of this tale, I will write it down so that perhaps the Mages Guild can study it, and one day break the curse that the Keepers of Truth have tried so hard to contain.

And so, here: The Tale of the Lost Vengeance, our Lord Vivec's secret shame, and the Anguish that caused a god's heart to bleed.

* * *

**Keeper Meraala, first of Vengeance:**

The carriage came in to Vivec City pulled by two modest guar with tattered saddles, the Dunmer at the helm no more than a boy of twenty-two years and of minor significance. It had underneath its ragged canopy a wealth of potatoes, pelts and meats, and to the unsuspecting eyes of the people it passed it seemed no more than a simple farm cart sent forth to the capital to sell its wares. Those who stared harder – the few who did not need to be anywhere in a rush – noted that there was a hooded figure amongst the sacks, its face turned from the sunlight, but almost immediately dismissed it as the boy's grandmother, coming along to see the great city and pay her respects to the Warrior-Poet. If a guardsman on the road had stopped the cart, perhaps the Anguish would never have happened; but they hadn't, and so it did.

The Dunmer came to a halt near the bridge of the first canton, where he turned and looked at the passenger in his cart. He smiled, and it was a warm, bright smile that did not to dispel the ice of the person he had driven from Sathra Farms.

"We're here!" he said, and pointed up to the enormous Temple Canton that overlooked the city. The water around it gleamed, and the Dunmer felt his heart soar at the sight of it. "That's Lord Vivec's temple up there. He should be inside, unless he's gone to Mournhold. Do you need anymore help, friend?"

The figure shook its head and set a small pouch in the boy's hand. He was about to protest – he wanted no money for helping someone who seemed down on their luck – but when he caught sight of his companion's hand, the words died in his mouth.

Its hand was a mixture of gold skin and ghastly black, as if at some point it had been partially submerged in lava. The Dunmer had seen that hue of gold before, in storybooks as a child; the colour of the Chimer, the ancestors of his people. He did not have a chance to speak again before the figure alighted his carriage, and then that young Dunmer who carried the Anguish leaves the tale forever.

To the bridges it went, and with a slow, deliberate stride it crossed each canton, quiet and unhurried. Few paid it attention. It was a particularly busy day in the marketplace, with new wares arriving from the furthest reaches of Skyrim and Cyrodiil, and the citizens of Vivec were eager to peruse. The figure reached the Temple Canton without so much as a second glance.

It encountered one lone problem, and that was at the end of its journey, just as it was about to ascend the stairs to the temple itself. The guards were vigilant and not as prone to fancy as the civilians. As soon as the figure came across one of them, it was stopped. The guard's name was Aradel, a Mer who took pride in the accomplishments of the Tribunal and touted them as though they were his own.

"Halt," he demanded, the Holy emblem on his chestplate almost winking in the sunlight. "Lord Vivec isn't seeing anyone today. I suggest you move on."

The figure paused. It lifted its head towards him and made a noise – a strangled cry that sounded close to words, and enticed Aradel to lean closer. It was a fatal mistake.

He didn't even see the blade that killed him. He had tilted his ear towards the stranger so as to better hear it, but charred hands clutched his head and a sharp pain erupted in his throat before fading into a cool sort of terror. The blood flowed; if he had the presence of mind to observe it, Aradel might have been offended that someone dare spill Dunmer blood on Vivec's temple floor. Instead he thought of his wife, and how furious she would be if he was late to dinner.

His body was pushed over the canton's banister. Aradel was lost to the ocean, his name known now only to the Anguish.

* * *

In the temple itself, Lord Vivec had felt a change in the air; an undercurrent of malevolent energy that he could not quite place. It was at once familiar and terrible, as unknown to him as a cup of bitter tea he hadn't yet sipped. He felt peculiar, but did not see a need to increase the patrols around the canton or contact his fellow divines. Instead, as the feeling was faint, he allowed his hall to be filled with priests and scholars, certain in their safety, and passed on more wisdom that would have made up his thirty-seventh Lesson.

"Lord Vivec!" he heard a call – his archcanon Thormil, with his bent back and white beard, had scuttled into the room while he was discussing philosophy. For Thormil to interrupt him was almost unheard of, and so Vivec was instantly thrown.

"Yes?" he asked. "What is it, Thormil?"

"My Lord, there's a…" the old Mer paused for a moment, apparently uncertain of what he had seen, "…there's a man outside, demanding to speak with you. He claims you have business."

"The temple is open only to my priests today. Tell him to return tomorrow and we can tend to this 'business'."

"I've told him this already, my Lord, but he refuses to leave. I even threatened to call the Ordinators. He says he's not afraid."

Vivec's eyebrows rose. He gestured to his priests with his golden hand and they started to line the walls, pulling the scholars into step beside them. Once there were no more people in the way of the door, the god nodded to Thormil.

"Very well," he said, "then send him in, and pray he has an excellent reason for his impudence."

The doors to the hall opened. A rectangular patch of floor burned a hot white as the sunlight hit the stone, and a long, dark shadow stretched through it like a black finger as the figure swept inside. It came to a stop just a few steps into the hall. The doors closed shut behind it.

For a moment, all was silent. The priests and scholars looked, wide-eyed and stunned, as the figure stood unwavering before their Lord.

"Friend," said Vivec, "You claim business to my archcanon and then are silent to me. What is so pertinent that it must interrupt this day of peace and wisdom?"

The figure uttered a low and harsh laugh; one that sickened the mortals' stomachs and hurt even Vivec's ears. Its head lifted, and indeed it sounded as man, but in an instant those in the hall knew it was anything but.

"Peace," it said in a voice that seemed to rumble with the thunders of Oblivion. "And what would you know of peace, Vehk?"

Thormil's head recoiled as though he had been slapped. "How dare you speak to our Lord—"

That charred golden hand flew out of the figure's cloak and there was a sickening snap. Thormil landed on the floor with a heavy _thud_, his head bent at an impossible angle and the bones of his neck twisted under his skin. Their audience let out a thin, warbling cry almost in unison, and the priests fell to their knees in prayer.

Vivec was alarmed, but he kept his face calm and collected. He had no idea what this man – what this _creature _– was, but if it could murder his archcanon with no more than a gesture, it was powerful.

_So this is what I felt when the winds turned, _he thought.

"So you interrupt my priests and murder my archcanon. To what end, creature? What business justifies the murder of such a faithful servant as Thormil?"

The figure rubbed his hands together and let out a chuckle. It resonated with a sort of evilness that sounded to his ears like tar. "Creature? Such a careless choice of words for the Warrior-Poet."

"Would you prefer murderer?"

"Of many thousands I have killed this one, and am stamped a murderer. And yet, Vehk, you have murdered thousands and are revered as a god. I've seen Muarta as she spins and slaughters."

The Warrior-Poet's lips thinned, "What are you, creature?"

"You don't know? How can you not, O Poet? Am I not a familiar shape? Do you forget so easily?"

"Tell me what you are!" Vivec's fist hit a table that sat on the floor beside his leg, and although he was levitating his audience felt his shout travel through the ground. The figure, however, appeared uncowed.

That charred hand reached up and clutched the hood. As it slid back from the creature's head, the priests and scholars saw first those piercing golden eyes, intense in their beauty, and the pointed ears of what was definitely a Mer. He had the skin of a Chimer, but it was marred by great patches of black, horrific burns. Vivec's face fell as he stared at this demon before him, for he knew him, and he knew him well.

"I was the most beautiful of the Pomegranate Banquet!" declared the half-Mer, "I dined on the souls of the Chimer, drank the blood of Snow Elves, danced on the hearts of Daedra! But low, while I opened my eyes to a thousand planes, my sire was betrayed! The King of Rape, thrown into the fires, and I after him!"

The priests prayed more furiously as, around them, the walls of the canton trembled and groaned as if caught in an earthquake.

"My brothers slain! My sisters murdered! And I, survivor, robbed of my beauty, burned by my mother's betrayal."

The figure held up his hand, and in an instant all prayers stopped. The scholars cowered low to the ground and the priests looked up, slack-jawed, as the creature stared Vivec in the eye.

"The day of my reckoning is upon us," he rumbled, "For as long as there is hate in my heart – for as long as the blood of my brothers and sisters is spilt – I will have my revenge. Vehk—"

Vivec held his gaze, though all he wanted was to turn and hide from it.

"—Mother."

"What's your name?"

Another terrible laugh.

"I am Anguish," he replied, "and soon, my brothers and sisters will rise, and a new banquet will begin."

The creature's hand came down in one fell swoop. As it did, the priests all clutched at their throats and started to splutter, and the scholars dropped without so much as a whisper of protest. The latter were dead – no wounds, no illness, just dead – and the priests were soon to follow, but their cries and suffering was so great that for a moment Vivec almost couldn't stand it.

"Anguish!" he screamed, but the creature had vanished in a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. All that remained of him was the lingering smell and the dozen of dead bodies of the floor.

The Anguish would soon sweep across Vvardenfell in a wave of forgotten death.

* * *

Vivec preserve us: What if I've woken him?


	2. Dead Men Scream

**Keeper Hla:**

No one is quite sure where the Anguish went; all that is known is, when he returned a few moons later, his power and knowledge had far advanced.

Vivec had sent word to the families of the priests and scholars that each one had been sent on divine missions to the ashlands – missions from which they would not return – and Thormil, old Mer that he was, had passed peacefully in his sleep. Panic would spread like a toxic cloud if he told them the truth, and to die nobly on the divine path was an honour he would not withhold from their houses.

But once he had appointed a new archcanon, Vivec started to ponder on his child's plot. He had revealed it to some extent, but not enough for the god to act. To raise dead creatures of Oblivion, half-Daedra and half-divine, would require an enormous amount of power that he was not certain Anguish was yet capable of. But, if he had felt comfortable enough to reveal himself, perhaps he was close. Vivec welcomed worshippers to his temple and made appearances in his city, but thoughts of his child's madness persisted. Eventually, he decided that he could not deal with the problem alone; and though it irritated him to, he sent for Almalexia and Sotha Sil, telling them that a 'pressing problem' had presented itself and he needed to confer with them as soon as possible. He could hear Sotha Sil's voice as he wrote the letter, chiding him for his 'whimsies'.

Almalexia arrived first, surrounded by her Hands and a number of her most trusted elite soldiers. She was a beautiful goddess – a Chimer still, surrounded by light, though the sight of her reminded him for a split second of the Anguish and he had to steel himself.

"Vivec," she said, and her voice was imbued with a power that had leashed itself to her very bones, "Your letter sounded urgent. Sotha Sil's not here?"

He gestured for her to follow him. The pair went through a door in the hall that led down to Vivec's private quarters, where not even the soldiers followed them. Their feet never touched the floor.

His chambers were large and filled with peculiar luxuries. Blue flin bottles with curved necks, throw pillows in a variety of colours, and his bed, which admittedly he spent very little time in – for what is a god who needs sleep? Almalexia did not pay much heed to their surroundings, for she could sense stirrings in the air, and no mortal pleasantries would distract her.

"I sensed trouble on the winds, Vehk, and now you've called us forth to Vvardenfell. What's happened? Is it the mountain?"

"No," he replied, and his voice was graver than she ever recalled it being, "If it were the mountain, I would have dealt with it myself. No, it's far more complicated than that."

"Then what is it, Vehk?"

"Patience, Ayem. We must wait for Sotha Sil. If I'm to tell this, I don't want to repeat it."

Perhaps it was the severity of his voice or the fact he had refused to speak further on the subject, but Vivec's words struck Almalexia. He had seldom declined the opportunity to speak before. He seemed distracted, on edge, and she chose not to press him.

"Very well," she said, "Then we shall wait for him."

The pair lapsed into an uneasy silence. For Almalexia, Vehk's silence was worse than his tale.

* * *

Sotha Sil, of course, was in his clockwork city, where he spent most of his time outside of Artaeum. He stood in his study, surrounded by the fantastical works of the Dwemer; large mechanical spiders that whirred and clicked with every move; the spheres that folded out into fearsome foes; even the pistons that shunted his city's day-to-day operations were impressive feats of engineering. The thrum of the machinery was as familiar and comforting to him as his own heartbeat.

Lord Seht started his day as he often did; unaware that it was day at all. The passage of time did not concern him so much as it had in the First Era, and sometimes he had to feel his power fade and weaken before he realised it was time for his annual pilgrimage to the Heart. It was one of the few pitfalls of secluding one's self from Nirn. It almost irritated him that he had been called there by his brother Vivec, when he was so deep in complex projects that required his full attention. If not for the letter's urgency, he wouldn't leave. He wanted to finish a project before he made his trip to Vvardenfell, however, and so he focused himself on the task at hand. But there was a strangeness to the air as he hunched over his desk – a sort of metallic oddity carried by a non-existent wind.

_Blood_? He thought, but dismissed it almost as quickly. There was no blood in the clockwork city, only oil. Perhaps some had spilt from one of the spiders, or a project had sprung a leak. But even as he tried to explain it away, the god was sceptical of himself.

He was right to be.

Sotha Sil heard the disturbance before he saw it; it sounded as if the air itself had torn at the seams, and a cloud of foul-smelling smoke enveloped his study before he had the chance to blink.

"Seht." He heard a voice, an evil voice, carry out of the shroud that engulfed a cloaked figure. He could see its ominous silhouette and smelt a distant fire burning.

Sotha Sil folded his hands in front of him and tapped in to his inner peace. "How did you come here?"

"One may learn all sorts of secrets if one knows where to look," the creature replied.

"Then forgive me my impertinence, for I must be in the presence of a great and wise wizard."

He laughed. It rumbled lower than even his loudest pistons, and he was not so proud as to deny that he was on edge.

"No mere wizard could do what I have done. Crawled from the fiery arms of Oblivion itself. Borne wounds severe enough to murder ten men. But, alas, Seht, I've come to discuss more important matters."

"You know me and yet I do not know you," the god pointed out, "Perhaps first you can introduce yourself, so I know exactly who I'm dealing with?"

There was a pause. Then the figure made a quick slash with his arms and the smoke dispelled – and with it went the smell, which Sotha Sil imagined he would remember for eons to come. It was that scent of burned flesh, reminding him of torn souls wailing in the deepest depths of Coldharbour.

His companion revealed his face, and whatever shock Seht might have felt he did not show it in his expression. He remembered those eyes, though. For him the time of the Chimer was a distant memory, not a section of a library. If not for the horrific burns (that still seemed for a split second to be on fire), he might have called the man beautiful.

"Hear me," the creature stretched his arms out to his sides, "I am the cries of children at their parents' demise; I am the betrayal of a close friend; I am the darkness that seeps in and steals a dying man's last breath. I am Anguish, Child of Coldharbour, Heir of Vivec, the lost beauty of the Pomegranate Banquet. Learn it now, Seht, for I will crush Nirn underfoot before I am forgotten."

The god's chin lifted somewhat. "Very well. I welcome you, Anguish. Tell me – what is so pressing that it required such a dramatic appearance?"

"My quarrel isn't with you. That bloated Poet who claims himself a warrior; he's the thing I want. I came to offer you a proposal; to leave me to my dealings on Nirn and, in turn, I will leave you to your machines."

"And if I were to refuse this generous offer?"

His smile revealed teeth that had been filed to fine points, "Then you will join Ayem and Vehk in the grave. Eventually."

Sotha Sil chuckled and shook his head. He paced from his desk, and the Anguish peered for a moment at the projects that littered it, the complicated diagrams and half-written notes. He didn't understand them. That angered him.

"Such pride," said Seht, "Be wary, young one, for arrogance has seen many a man early in their tomb."

"I am no man," the creature bit back, "I am the next in the line of Daedric Princes."

"Forgive me, Prince, for I wasn't aware it was a hereditary role."

"Enough!"

The shout rattled the halls of Seht's city. Pieces of machinery that had sat comfortably on their shelves rolled on to the floor and small pistons were shaken out of place, but Sotha Sil did not have time to observe these things. He had time only to block the sudden force that had been thrown towards him, perhaps to kill him, perhaps simply to knock him from his feet. However, to do that he needed to shield himself, and that locked him in a cage of his own making – for a time. He dare not dispel it while the Anguish was still there. He might not be able to block the next attack.

"My sire, Molag Bal, isn't fit to call himself a Prince, no less a King," said the demon. The more Sotha Sil looked at him, the more he appeared as a boy on the cusp of manhood. "When my brothers and sisters feast on Nirn, I will rend the power from his bones, drink his blood in a chalice of rubies. I will carve my name in the stones of Oblivion itself. And you, Sotha Sil – you will be too busy to stop me."

"Will I, Anguish?"

"Yes," that laugh again, "I have a gift for you. My first prototype, you might say."

"I'm honoured."

Anguish's face changed. Sotha Sil's calmness had infuriated him but, for the smallest of moments, the god could swear he sensed a longing in those golden eyes, a lost and thoughtful hurt that had twisted itself into madness.

"Be honoured," he growled, "for my brother Ul'acius has risen again, and your fabricants will be his first meal."

The figure raised his arms. A peculiar light appeared in his hand, and if not for Seht's pang of panic he would have observed that it was no colour he was familiar with. From this light emerged a staff, twisted and gnarled, with a fiery stone on top from which he swore he could hear screaming. In the space of an instant Seht saw armies of red-eyed Dunmer rising up from the lavas of Red Mountain, and an entire city crumbling under their mad weight.

It was all he could see before the Anguish slammed his staff on the floor, and a red, hot light blinded him.


	3. Ashfall

This was not a pleasant trip. Keeper Ralmarys had far more insight into the Anguish than Meraala and Hla, and this is where the tale branches more in to the creature himself (itself?). For longer than I felt comfortable with, even my heart bled for this beast.

It's a trick, I tell you. This how he does it. He buries himself so far in your heart with the space he's made himself in it, and then he leeches the happiness and joy from you. That must be it! It must be!

I hope so…

* * *

**Keeper Ralmarys:**

The ash outside fell like snow. It drifted on the heat, weightless fragments of destroyed things, and floated down on the unsuspecting tongues of children, whose faces twisted with disgust as the taste drew them from happy memories.

Perhaps he was also a destroyed thing.

Anguish stared at himself in the water of the basin the wise woman had filled for him. His charred and molten skin – his betrayed-skin – had stained him. He was once beautiful. He had been the envy of his brothers and sisters. Mortals would have thrown themselves at his feet, he would have enjoyed the finest wines, and no one would have been able to resist his whimsies. All that remained of that life were his eyes, still gleaming lights in a world of gloom.

But he would not allow that injustice to be left unpunished. He would raise his murdered siblings and offer them a feast that would sate them for eons, and after that he would throw them Vivec's soul to tear apart as he had to them. Then he would be beautiful again. He would shed his betrayed-skin, and like a butterfly emerge as he had been once before – whole.

And when he was whole, he would storm Coldharbour itself and rip his father's failure from his chest.

"My Lord?"

The wise woman's voice pulled him from his reverie. Anguish started to wash the ash that had settled in the crevices of his burns.

"Do you wish for counsel?" he asked.

"No, my Lord, just…" the woman paused. She was an older Dunmer, near her two-hundredth year, and had faithfully guided her tribe in the old Chimer ways for over a century. When the Anguish had appeared to them from the depths of the lava beds, she had thought her people finished, that this evil creature was conjured by the Three to wipe out their peaceful settlement; and when he had offered them an insight into the future, into his plans for the False Gods of the Tribunal, she, like her people, had fallen to her knees and sworn fealty. She considered him the harbinger of the Chimer's return. Disfigured and unsettling though he was, he would save them from their disgrace. Azura's Nerevarine would never need return to Tamriel if the Anguish could end the Three's heresy.

The wise woman let out a low, steady breath. "I came to tell you that the excavation's started."

He paused. Once more, she pushed aside her innate fear of him.

"Excellent," he said. "And did you send word to the other tribes?"

"I did, my Lord. Our runners are expected to return at any moment."

"You did well in accepting my gift so quickly, Aphiese. Once I've completed the ritual, the rule of the Three will be at its end. Vvardenfell will be united for the first time in centuries."

That was enough for Aphiese to calm her troubled mind.

* * *

Sotha Sil was late to Vvardenfell – by roughly three days, if Vivec counted. But when he stepped through the portal with the corpse of Ul'acius, the Warrior-Poet forgot any annoyance he might have felt.

He put him on Vivec's bedroom table, sweeping away empty flin bottles and gifts from worshippers as he did. As the Three stared down at the corpse, it was clear this was no creature of Nirn. Three stubbed arms protruded on his left side and his mouth was unhinged to an alarming degree, frozen in one final death-screech before Seht had ended his terror for the second time. His single, sightless eye lolled aimlessly in his head. Ul'acius, the runt of the litter. Truly an abomination.

"What is this thing?" asked Almalexia.

"A brother of the Anguish," Sotha Sil replied, "I assume that was what we were called for, Vivec."

The god looked down at his twice-dead child. There was a stirring inside him, a feeling of regret for this wrong thing, but whether or not that meant he loved him he was uncertain. He assumed so. He did not want to gaze upon his corpse a third time, if that meant anything.

"Vehk," Almalexia's voice derailed his train of thought, "Will you explain now what the Anguish is?"

Vivec levitated to a bench nearest to his bed and settled himself on it. It was the first time in a long time that he had sat down. With him came Almalexia, but she remained suspended in air, and Sotha Sil stood to the side of the room, his chin lifted thoughtfully as he gazed at his friend.

He told them the whole of it. As he did, the Warrior-Poet reached for his flin and drank at leisure – a practice he had come to associate more with comfort than intoxication. It was true that even highborns could find solace at the bottom of a bottle. Almalexia's face flickered between despair, anger, and sometimes even sympathy as he explained the Anguish's sudden appearance on Nirn. Sotha Sil remained quietly contemplative throughout.

Once he was finished, a silence settled in the room. The divines had known of Vivec's dalliance with the Lord of Coldharbour, but that he had allowed some of his progeny to escape – that one of them had avoided his notice for so long, had become powerful enough to threaten even them – was an almost unforgivable sin in Ayem's eyes.

"If this Anguish plans an invasion, he must die before he can raise his siblings," she said with a cold finality.

"He's a powerful mage, rivalling even our own strength," said Sotha Sil. "It would be foolish of us to send soldiers after him. He would decimate our armies."

"Then what do you suggest? That we allow him to raise a mass of Daedra on our shores?"

"We must tread carefully. I have no doubt that Anguish is further in his plans than we believe. We may have to ready the men for an invasion, regardless."

"Perhaps you attribute him with skill he doesn't possess."

"I felt it, Ayem. He has the blood of Molag Bal in his veins. Even if he isn't as far in his plot as I suspect, he would not shiver at the thought of mortal men charging at him."

"Vehk, you've been quiet."

Vivec had more or less ignored the discussion between them. He found himself staring at Ul'acius from across the room, the way one of his arms had fallen over the edge to dangle lifelessly in the air. If the Anguish had raised him, it meant he knew how he would raise his other brothers and sisters. Ul'acius, though a horrifying sight, was the weakest of his children. Useful for little more than haunting children's nightmares. If he had not killed him, he fancied Molag Bal would have cleaved the creature's head from his shoulders.

"We have been left in a difficult position," he said. "If we move, he can destroy our forces; if we do not, he raises his army unhindered."

"Then we must have more information before we can proceed." Sotha Sil went to the table where Ul'acius laid. He had battled for three strenuous days to kill it, and even then it had wreaked havoc over his city. He was nimble, quick, and had avoided even the most sophisticated of traps just by virtue of his perverse shape. Many fabricants laid in bits about clockwork's halls and corridors.

"Spies? He could be anywhere in Vvardenfell by this point. I doubt we'll find him in a city tavern."

"Perhaps not, but if my interpretation is correct, I had a vision that could help us to find him."

Vivec and Almalexia both rose to attention, their shoulders straightening and their heads tilting ever-so-slightly upwards. Their companion, however, stared hard at the creature before him and made no attempt to explain himself. It felt like an age before he spoke again.

"Vivec, send your finest spies to infiltrate the Red Exiles, the Vereansu, and Ulath tribes. Even if he isn't there specifically, I doubt the Ashlanders haven't heard of him. Any and all contact, correspondence, even rumour can help us. Otherwise we will continue to fumble like blind mice until Anguish decides to show himself again."

The Warrior-Poet nodded. He would do all he could to prevent his children's return.

* * *

Murmurs travelled through the Dunmer crowd like a wave. Anguish stood above them on a rock, cut smooth by the winds, and waited as the last of his new followers started to step into place. Behind him loomed the ominous Red Mountain, spewing occasional tufts of smoke and sulphur, and around him snaked the lava pits and wells of magma that warmed the little village of tents far to their left.

The deal had been struck. He had the Ashlanders at his beck and call for as long as the Three's destruction remained his ultimate goal. Even as he faced them as their new leader, however, several Ashlanders felt that strange prick of fear in the middle of their heart. It spread as a disease did.

"Ashlanders!" he announced, "The true faithful, the scourges of Almsivi! Today marks the beginning of the Three's overdue end."

Aphiese wondered if the children in the crowd were truly green or if it was the way the light reflected from their skin.

"I, the new Prince of Fear and Regret, am here to reclaim my rightful place in Oblivion; and from the ashes of Vivec, new life will spring anew. Vvardenfell will see justice done, and you, Dunmer, shall be safe in the knowledge that your Chimer ancestors rest easy."

An Ashlander fainted beside her lover, who hurriedly pushed her up and shook her gently to rouse her. The Anguish was hideous, yes, and his voice enough to unsettle even the hardiest of men, but if it was true he intended to become a new Prince no one wanted to cross him.

"This is a new dawn," he announced, and from the depths of Red Mountain came a rumbling. "Even now, the men of the Ulath Clan have started to excavate the site of our great triumph. There is much to be done before I can begin the ritual, but there is time before that. Drink, eat and be merry, friends, for in morning, you shall join your Dunmer brothers in carving out your victory."

He raised his arms and gnarled staff.

"To Vvardenfell! To Azura!"

The Ashlanders cheered. It was a noise that carried down the rolling sides of the mountain, toppling pebbles and frightening kwama, as Anguish raised his head to the falling ash and smiled.


	4. Tremble, All ye Mighty

**Keeper Indstel:**

Aphiese watched as he communed with the spirits. It was a curious sight, oddly calming; he performed the ritual with the ease of a master wizard, and though the spectral warriors of old were hesitant of his questions she could tell he was pulling the answers from them, somehow.

She did not understand much of what he said. It was in a language she had no knowledge of. The more time she spent at Anguish's side, however, the more her fear had subsided and gave way to admiration. She still felt a pang every now and then – a sudden feeling that the Anguish was _wrong_ and he shouldn't exist. But she had watched him rally her people behind him, offer them hope that had long languished after every failed Incarnate. Aphiese trusted that, if nothing else, he was truly a Prince without a throne. For now, that was enough.

"Thank you, spirits," he finally said, "Rest easy, now. Go with my blessing."

The warriors, clad in ancient and ethereal armour, started to fade from their sight, until Aphiese could see the wall of her tent behind them and the several bookcases set up against it. Once their light had died, she hurried to start the firepit.

"Will the Mountain allow us passage, my Lord?" she asked. Perhaps it wasn't her place to, but she often asked him questions of their progress. The Anguish had not chided her for it yet.

"Yes." He replied. "Ulath's miners should find the well soon enough."

"The Well of Ash?"

"Yes."

"What will it look like, my Lord?"

"Do not trouble yourself with that, Aphiese. It's not the concern of mortals."

"Yes, my Lord. Forgive me."

The Anguish lapsed into silence, and Aphiese, eager to recover from her misstep, searched her mind for news she could offer him. Her Lord had been content so far with excavation reports and their growing numbers, but she wanted more than his contentment. She wanted his favour. As the fire roared to life and offered them a little light to see by, the wise woman thought perhaps news of another Ashlander tribe travelling towards them might help:

Until a sudden, enormous tremor of the earth sent shockwaves through her tent.

Aphiese's possessions flew from her shelves and towards both her and the Prince and threw her from her feet. She saw Anguish rise from his seat as her vision doubled and wavered. He raised his hands and, in an instant, a shield of golden light enveloped the pair, protecting them from the assault. Aphiese watched as her jars and pots shattered against his wall. She found she did not care. She looked up at the creature before her and wondered if he was truly ugly or simply a different, incomprehensible form of beauty. She was not sure where the thought came from and she would never think it again.

Once the earthquake had subsided, Anguish lowered his shield and stared at the entrance to her tent. She could not tell what he was thinking.

"The mine." He said, his voice low and inscrutable. "Come."

* * *

Vivec had sent his finest spies to the ashlands, but even he feared for them when felt the force of that earthquake. His archcanon Foryan fell to the floor when it hit; benches had rattled from the walls and his worshippers had either followed the archcanon or threw themselves to the nearest solid object for stability. Once it had passed, frightened eyes looked up to him for an explanation.

The Warrior-Poet was silent before them. Perhaps he lost their faith for a split second, with the confused expression on his face. He was about to spin a tale before a portal opened behind him. From the light emerged Sotha Sil, the expression on his face calming even to his fellow divine. The architect swept his gaze over the crowd and it seemed to soothe them.

"Peace, friends," he said, "There's no need to be concerned. It's just the rhythms of Red Mountain, the natural throes of a beast locked up in captivity. Fear it as much as you would a caged lion; show the proper respect, and it will not bite you."

The worshippers let out a unanimous sigh of relief. Vivec felt his heart start to beat again at the sound.

"Vehk," Seht murmured, quietly enough that no one heard him. "We must talk. Hurry yourself."

* * *

In Vivec's bedroom, Sotha Sil appeared ill at ease; at least, his calm expression was more frayed than it had been before. The tone of his voice didn't change. He spoke slowly and thoughtfully, and often his companion wondered if he could ever be harried, even if his own death came screaming towards him.

"That was no mere earthquake, my friend."

The Warrior-Poet made a noise of agreement. In truth, the tremor had startled him – and he was not used to being startled.

"I fear Anguish has started his project, and whatever ritual he intends to perform involves the Red Mountain. That cannot be good."

"If he can somehow harness the Mountain's energies, he could release all manner of creatures bound there."

"He could perhaps topple the Mountain itself," Sotha Sil considered, "Vvardenfell would be drowned in lava before his siblings have any chance to be reborn."

"We should call Almalexia from Mournhold. I fear we will need our combined strength to ensure Vvardenfell's survival."

"She has business to tend to. Let her finish it, else the people might start to realise that something is amiss. It hardly matters; her presence will not change the flow of this course."

Vivec was not certain if he heard a hint of defeatism in his companion's voice, but he did not question it. Instead, he tried to reinforce his argument with sound logic; a trait Sotha Sil valued more than his own life, in some regards.

"If Anguish succeeds, hundreds would be killed – thousands, in truth. If we aren't prepared, there will be no end to the suffering he will inflict on Vvardenfell's people."

"And he won't achieve any of those goals in the next few weeks," Seht countered. "In any case, Ayem is reactionary. It is best if she learns of all developments once the reason for it has been uncovered and a plan laid out."

The Warrior-Poet relented, if only because he had no response. He would ruminate on Sotha Sil's points but, for now, he was content that he was at least not facing his son's plot alone. Powerful though he was, this would require a sort of fortitude he had not needed to call upon in centuries.

"Very well," he said, "We shall just have to hope that none of my spies were caught in whatever that was. Or that Anguish has already rooted them out."

* * *

The Anguish saw the destruction in front of him, and his face was cool. The boulders that had made up the roof of their mine had collapsed and now laid in large piles on the ash, occasional limbs protruding from them, hands still clutched on their pickaxes. Behind him he could hear the faint sobs of their families, of the wise women; but, somewhere deep inside of him, he felt a deep stirring of rage.

"Master Anguish," Varameni, the fairly young wise woman of the Ahemmusa Clan, spoke to him in a voice choked with tears, "What will we do?"

He did not respond to her, at least not in words. The Prince clutched tightly on his staff and continued to stare at the scene before him. After a long while, he slammed the end of the staff on the floor, quelling the tears from the Ashlanders, and raised his arms above his head. His cloak fanned out around him like the hood of a snake.

The boulders rose from their piles. The grieving crowd were silent as he suspended them in the air, revealing the carnage underneath. Shattered bones, split skulls, spines warped to unimaginable degrees. The more sensitive of the Ashlanders fainted, but they were few. The Anguish gazed upon this wreckage…and smiled. Though once Vivec in features, Bal ran just as hot through his veins, and some part of him enjoyed the sight.

He threw the boulders away from the sight. Their landing made a crash that reverberated through the suddenly silent air.

The Ashlanders watched as he made odd gestures in the air. Purple energy appeared from his hands, and then the dead men's spirits were before them, ethereal and beautiful and reminding Aphiese of the spectral warriors he had communed with in her tent. He lowered one hand and turned himself half-way towards them, as if he were focusing his entire being on his spell.

The spirits clutched at their heads, suddenly in pain, and their shouts sounded desperate, wailing for mercy. The Anguish had none. He continued his spell, purple energy sparking madly in his hand, until the dead before him lowered to their knees and bent their heads. Submission.

One of the Ashlanders let out a faint and warbled cry.

"My Lord!" called Aphiese, but he dismissed her shout with a flick of his hand.

"These men dedicated themselves to the service of a great future," he announced, "Their deaths do not avail them of that commitment. I bind them here, in sight of all of you, so that they may continue the search for the Well of Ash. Know this – to defeat the Three, all must be willing to sacrifice, to toil, until Almsivi lay dead. Not when their own mortal form is at its end."

He stopped then. No one could tell what was running through his mind, but with another flick of the hand the spirits picked up their axes and returned to work. Spouses looked on, eyes wet with tears; families watched as their loved ones were reduced to phantom slaves.

But the Anguish's message lingered on. The Ashlanders were willing to sacrifice. They had done so for so long; and after the Three's defeat, was it not reasonable that their friends would rest easily in Aetherius? Rest proud and true to their heritage?

Once their Lord had departed for Aphiese's tent, the crowd dispersed into uneasy groups, and went about their day.

* * *

"Aphiese."

"Yes, my Lord?"

The wise woman knelt beside him as he sat on her chair. Her hands were rested in her lap and her face, awe-struck and submissive, was one note short of complete worship. He did not look at her as he spoke, but rather the fire that danced and crackled in front of them, throwing out long shadows that chased each other across the burns of his face.

"Those Dunmer," he said, "Did they have children?"

"Yes, master – most of them, at least."

"Hm."

His Chimer eyes were brilliant in the firelight.

"Do you know what's more powerful than loyalty, Aphiese?"

"No, my Lord."

"Blood." He replied. "Blood dictates who we are, what we do. For good or for ill, family lineage is as important as the tenets one lives by."

Anguish's hand rose up and toyed with the flames. They danced to his rhythm, swaying in a pattern that almost mesmerised her.

"These men and women serve me to ensure that their family's names are not left in disgrace, that their Chimer ancestors shall smile on them. Once, I had a family as well. But that was…a long time ago."

He stopped his spell. Aphiese almost mourned when the flames returned to their natural dance.

"Bring them to me."

"My Lord?"

"The children," he clarified, "Bring me those Mers' children. It's only right that in their parents' sacrifice, I should ensure their legacy."

"Sir, that's…that's…" she struggled over her words. What was it? What was the well of fear she felt in her heart?

"They should be able to look upon the face of the man for whom their parents died, and love him," he said. "These will be the second generation of my worshippers. I must teach them my code, lead them from the heretics' lies. Aphiese, these are no longer the children of Dunmer. These are the Children of Anguish."

He set his eyes above her head, and she knew she would have to obey.

"Bring them to me. I have many plans for them."

* * *

Keeper Indstel was a strange woman – stranger than the rest of the Keepers, surely, even Ralmarys. She had this look in her eye, like a far away torment. Whenever I made a move she wasn't expecting, she would jump up as though I were about to hit her. Imagine this story told with occasional interludes of screaming, and then you have the experience I had.

Ralmarys laughed when he sent me on my way to her. I didn't understand why at the time. Tricky bastard.


	5. Lord of Deceit

**Keeper Felsthyr:**

The spies had infiltrated the camp under the guise of disgruntled Daedric priests. Their skin crawled at the feel of the robes on their skin; Saraabi had chosen to Azura, once patron to the Dunmer's ancestors, while his colleagues Milara and Sontel had chosen Mephala and Boethiah, respectively. The ashlands were not short of cultists to find.

The Ashlanders, of course, were suspicious of them when first the trio entered the Ulath camp. Men and women seemed to crowd close to the Mountain, armed with swords, and seemed intent on hiding whatever laid on the horizon behind them. One stepped out – a Dunmer with a hard scowl and long hair – and questioned them before their feet had settled more than two steps within their camp's borders.

_This is far too many people for a single tribe, _Saraabi thought to himself.

"Who are you?" the man questioned. Behind him was a child wielding a small spear, her face twisted in such a fierce look of hate that Sontel wanted to reach out and take it away from her.

"Peace, friends; we mean you no harm," said Saraabi, "My name is Tavik, and these are Ulmasea and Giraheri."

"_Who are you_?!" he demanded again. The child inched ever closer. She was poised to strike.

"We are Daedric priests, come to seek an audience with the one who calls himself 'Anguish'."

Saraabi thought he heard a sharp intake of breath from the crowd.

"Is he here? The Anguish?" asked Milara. Considered by most as second only to Saraabi, she was eager to prove her worth to Lord Vivec and the mysterious Sotha Sil; and if that meant interrupting him at times, so be it. This was her chance to prove to the Warrior-Poet that she deserved more complex missions.

"What would three priests want with Lord Anguish?"

_Lord Anguish?_ He thought, _Vivec damn it, this thing works fast._

"We pray to our mistresses and lords and receive no answer, no wisdom nor comfort," Sontel cut in, "and then rumour of a new Prince arises, one who listens to his followers? Who appears to them in flesh and blood, not by way of messengers and cryptic signs? We've come to see him with our own eyes and pledge our allegiance."

"It's a trick!" shouted the child. She jabbed her spear towards them, as if she meant to skewer them then and there.

"Hush, child," the man murmured, then to the trio, "You're no Ashlanders. There's not enough dirt on you. Where do you hail from? How can we trust you?"

"We're of Vivec," Saraabi told them, ignoring the slight hitch in his companions' breathing, "but, as you can tell, we're no friend of the Tribunal. If the Anguish is truly planning on their end, we can offer information that may prove useful."

The words tasted like poison in his mouth, but still he said them – and he meant it about the information, as well. It would not prove as useful as the Ashlanders and their 'lord' thought, small victories at best, but it would buy them some good faith. Sotha Sil himself had told them the material to pass on.

The man turned to the crowd behind him. From the masses Saraabi saw a woman, clad in traditional 'wise woman' clothes, nod at him. He stared at the trio for a moment more before he lowered his weapon. The child did the same, though much more slowly.

"I am Aphiese, wise woman of the Ulath tribe," the woman stepped forward and offered them a smile that belied her mistrustful gaze. "Our Lord Anguish is indeed here, though he tends now to the tribes' children. He mustn't be disturbed, but perhaps that's a turn of good fortune."

"Why so, my lady?" Saraabi asked.

"Until he ascends his rightful place in Oblivion, our Lord acknowledges only Azura as a Prince worthy of his respect. Robes of Boethiah and Mephala may offend him."

Milara and Sontel glanced at each other. Aphiese gestured to a largish tent off to the left of the crowd; a haphazard setup, Saraabi noticed, and with four well-armoured guards posted as its door.

"Come with me to the wise women's tent," she said. "We'll have you dressed in traditional Ashlander wear, something far less…incendiary. Adoesu, will you prepare Tavik for an audience with Lord Anguish?"

The man did so without question.

* * *

The Anguish was more intimidating in person. To be sat across from him, separated from his colleagues, Saraabi found himself rather unnerved; a feeling he did not experience often.

He had been offered tea. Though he was nervous, the spy accepted it and sipped, and so far it tasted normal. Perhaps stronger than he would prefer. He even saw the Anguish drink it himself, but who knew if poison affected such a misplaced creature?

"How did you hear of this place?" he asked. His voice was just as low and terrible as Vivec had warned him.

"Rumours from the Ashlanders, Lord Anguish," he replied, and thought to himself how he hated that name. "We followed them until we heard of the project at the Ulath camp."

"Project? Is that what mortals call divine will, now?"

"Forgive me."

"You and your…friends. You are of Vivec, yes?"

"Yes, my Lord. We lived lies, but heard much that will help your divine crusade come to fruition. It was the only way priests of our religion were able to survive. We practiced to all those who still accept the true Princes under the Tribunal's rule. After we were discovered, we left the city and set out to find a safe haven."

"Ever since Vivec the False God usurped Vvardenfell from Azura, he has tried to stamp out her worship. How does that make you feel, Tavik? To have to hide away your worship of a true Prince?"

Saraabi had to steel himself, "It was painful. It is even more painful now that she refuses to answer my calls for her wisdom and guidance."

The Anguish took another sip of his tea.

"Tavik," he said. "For now, I've decided to allow you entrance into this camp – but be warned. You are foreign both to the Ashlanders and to me. We will be watching you. Closely."

* * *

Almalexia would return soon, and Vivec still worried over his spies. He had heard no word from them; and while that was a typical development on most early-stage objectives, he could not help but fear the Anguish had found them. He would hear of their bodies paraded on a tribe's walls, or their souls imbued with those horrible creatures he had born into the world.

Sotha Sil was more practical. He arranged for the first messages to be sent between the spies, if they did still live, to be collected by couriers that doubled as Daedric cultist spies, Ashlander sympathisers, and other such positions that were used to cool the ashland's broiling temper.

The first dribbles of information would come soon, he hoped. He could not afford even to visit his beloved clockwork city – not when he could not be certain that the Anguish wouldn't know where he was – and the separation weighed on him. The sooner he could put this whole affair to rest, the sooner he could return and be isolated once more.

_The Anguish will bring about the end for all of Vvardenfell, _he thought to himself as he wandered Vivec's deserted streets that night, with the moon high above him, _and his plans to challenge Molag Bal – to ascend himself as a Daedric prince? What source of power does he expect to find? What has been lost for so long, only a dark creature could know of it?_

He was almost afraid of the answer.


	6. Heartsake

**Keeper Orera:**

The Anguish disappeared from public almost as soon as the spies had infiltrated. He had sequestered himself in Aphiese's former tent, and only she and the other wise women were permitted entry. The change unnerved Saraabi, but he would not question it so soon into his mission. Their hosts would not welcome curiosity, he feared.

From muttered conversations and overheard whispers, Saraabi found out that the Anguish had indeed removed roughly twenty or twenty-five infants from their families; infants whose parents now laboured as spectral slaves in the mine. The Ashlanders did not speak openly about it, but he could see mournful faces and worried eyes shift every so often to stare at their Lord's abode.

Milara theorised that the children were meant as sacrifices, one day as the three of them sat on the rocks some way from camp. It had been three weeks since their arrival, and their otherwise respectful nature had earned them a lower sort of distrust from most of the tribes. They were not questioned as much, but one wrong move could rip off their precarious covers.

"If they were sacrifices, he would have killed them and been done with it," said Sontel, "but I hear them, at night. They're still alive. He _coos_ at them."

"What do you mean?" Saraabi asked. Behind her he could see that looming red hulk and the rivers of lava that snaked out from it, and the heat it gave out sent shivers down his spine.

"I don't hear much. He's quite quiet, for a Daedra. But when I walk past, I swear he's…he's fussing over them."

"When have you ever heard a Daedra fuss?" scoffed Milara.

"He's not _just_ a Daedra," Saraabi pointed out, "He was, at some point, Lord Vivec's most beautiful child."

"Perhaps he holds some love for the Dunmer in his heart."

"That creature knows no love," Milara replied, "He's – _it's_ – an abomination. It's enslaved the spirits of its own followers and now it's robbed them of their children. I don't care what you think you've heard, Sontel, but, Lord Vivec or not, that twisted thing isn't divine and it definitely doesn't care about our people. It wants nothing but our lives."

The spies lapsed into silence, but Milara's words were heavy as ash in the air.

* * *

Aphiese was present when the Anguish resurrected the spirit of his sister.

It had been a laborious task, and even she saw the strain the ritual put on him. The Anguish's eyes burned with a painful fire as wreaths of blue smoke curled in the air. The Daedric hearts in front of him shrivelled and let out pathetic wheezes, almost trembling, as a phantom-thing started to form out of those wreaths and stamped itself in Aphiese's mind forever.

Her legs were long and spidery, her hair a mane of fire and faces. Her arms – or what Aphiese surmised as arms – were many, six in all, while long horns protruded from a face that seemed at once Dunmer and Breton, evil eyes flanked with lashes that twisted as snakes would in the heat. The first noise she heard from her was a scream, though her lips never moved.

The Anguish fell to his knees on the floor. Aphiese made as though to move towards him, but thought better of it. He was hunched over and panting, and it was several long moments before he raised his head to face her.

"Ihneroth," he said. His dark voice was weak and hoarse.

"So you summon banished kyn," said the phantom, pointing three arms at him, "If we didn't share blood, I would have slaughtered you where you stand. What do you want, Aem'uvus? Speak quickly. Even now our brothers and sisters pull me back into the darkness."

"Sister," he said, "Listen, and listen well. Our day is almost at hand. My followers search for the Well of Ash."

"Of Vvardenfell?"

"The same, my sister. Calm our siblings' troubled minds. Tell them that, soon, Oblivion will tremble under our weight, and our hunger will be met for the first time in millennia."

Ihneroth paused. Her head cocked to one side, and the Anguish realised that she had taken note of him for the first time.

"Aem'uvus," she said, "My beautiful little brother, what has marred your face so? Why do I gaze upon a creature so vile as our father to see?"

He felt a strange shame in her words. Aphiese, confused at their conversation, started to back away, as though she could secrete herself in some corner and be invisible until the horrible affair was over.

"Our mother shall know the weight of betrayal," the Anguish said. "This face bears our mark, the shame of our father's weakness and our mother's selfishness. We shall bury them both under their failures. But the False Gods – Almalexia and Sotha Sil – must be dealt with as well. Once you are risen, sister, we shall cleanse Vvardenfell. And then we march onto Coldharbour itself."

"I wondered what had become of Ul'acius when I could no longer feel his presence in the darkness," Ihneroth said, "and now he is returned, and itches to taste divine blood once more. Very well, Aem'uvus. I will ready our siblings for war. Do not fail us, brother."

"Muarta will shatter against the bone-shapes of Almsivi," he replied. Aphiese watched as the phantom faltered, flickering for a moment, before she finally seemed to evaporate into the air with a final, hushed sigh.

She was not certain if she would vomit, but the wise woman could feel the bile in her throat. The Anguish's hooded head rose as he stared out into the space where his sister had been. The weight of his thoughts filled the room with a choking smoke.

"Aphiese." He said. "Come here."

* * *

The more I heard of this tale, the more I was certain that I was living it – I swear I could see Ihneroth in front of me as Orera spoke, in all her terrible majesty. Damn it, my hands are shaking even as I write this.

But, I do feel some sorrow for the Anguish – and I _know_ that's not right! I _know _that's him, somehow, burrowed into my brain and sapping all the sense from me. Get out of my head, you Godforsaken DEMON CREATURE JUST GET OUT

**GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT****GET OUT****GET OUT****GET OUT****GET OUT****GET OUT****GET OUT** **GET OUT** **GET OUT** **GET OUT** **GET OUT** **GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT** **GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT** **GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT** **GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT** **GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT** **GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT** **GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT**


	7. Upon Thorns to Sit

**Keeper Nerhesu:**

The first of Saraabi's missives reached Vivec a month after he and his companions had left the city. It had been a pain to deliver it – a faithful courier disguised as a wandering merchant, another to replace the one that had died from venomous snake bites, and a small altercation that allowed the spy to slip the note unnoticed into the courier's wagon – but even Almalexia had conceded to its necessity.

Vivec and Sotha Sil decoded the missive as soon as the pair had retreated to the Warrior Poet's private quarters. The picture it painted of the camp and its inhabitants unsettled them. In his mind, Vivec imagined a place in which the air appeared in a constant haze, the ash like rainfall around emaciated bodies, hobbling towards tribesmen still fit enough for purpose.

_There are many here who would follow the Anguish into the fires of Red Mountain, if he commanded it. I have seen him stir them into a fervour with but a look, and when he speaks he does so as a master orator. More than one has been whipped up to a frenzy by listening to his speeches. If not for the repugnant nature of his words and his disfigurements, he would be inspiring, and more would flock under his banner the further his message spread._

_The Anguish – who has fashioned himself a Lord and future Daedric Prince since he came here – has his followers excavating an old mine deep in the Red Mountain. I have heard tell of a 'Well of Ash', whispered in conversations that seem to die whenever I draw near. It is my belief that this is what the creature searches for, and while I have not heard of it, he has captured the souls of his dead and put them to work in the mines until it is uncovered. Though necromancy is to Daedra as breath is to mortals, the sheer amount I've witnessed since our arrival leads to me to two conclusions; the first, that the creature would cleave and hack his way through Vvardenfell if given the chance, and that his entire plan hinges on that well. It must be a powerful artefact of some sort; else, what need would the Anguish have for it? _

_I myself have noticed that the Ashlanders have become more comfortable with us, if still cautious of our intentions with their people. Sontel often eats her meals with the labourers and their families. She claims them to be a decent folk, but misguided, uncertain of their place and clinging to traditions rather than embracing true love and divinity. Despite their blasphemy and Milara's objections, I am inclined to agree with her. These Ashlanders must be desperate if they choose to turn to one so vile as the Anguish. Perhaps, if they do not throw themselves before their False Lord in battle, we might open a dialogue with them? I do not presume to advise you, Your Holiness, but merely to ponder._

_There is more – little more, but this news is more terrifying for its strangeness. The Anguish has taken the children of his dead and sequestered them from the other tribespeople. He coos at them in the night; soft whispers that none of us can make sense of, spoken in a language profane and sickening to the ear. Milara has attempted to question the wise women about it, feigning a desire to be closer to the Anguish and understand his ways, but all of them are either ignorant or refuse to speak of it. Even Aphiese, wise woman to the Ulath tribe and close associate of the creature, will not offer answers. In fact, she has become rather morose as of late – but no less fanatical._

_Forgive me that I do not offer more, Your Holiness. We will continue in our watch and will report all we find._

_The ending of the words is ALMSIVI._

Vivec turned from the missive as though its words hurt him. Sotha Sil picked it up to analyse more closely while his companion floated aimlessly to the middle of the room, and after a brief moment of pause the Clockwork God let out a low and weary sigh.

"He seeks the Well," he said. "That is a device I wished never to touch sunlight again."

"What is it, Seht? This Well. I've heard no mention of it – not even in the deepest archives of my libraries."

"I cannot tell much," Sotha Sil admitted as he set down the parchment. His shoulders slumped as if he carried the weight of the world on them, and for a brief moment Vivec remembered him as a mortal, wise and venerable, but made of fragile flesh and bone. "Indeed, even I have heard only whispers. That the Anguish seeks it confirms that it is as terrible as it is powerful."

Vivec allowed him some quiet contemplation, though his mind itched for answers. That he had not heard of the Well unnerved him. There were few things that escaped his notice. The Warrior Poet let his feet touch the floor, for even he could feel the gravity of the situation before him.

After a few moments, Sotha Sil straightened his posture and turned to him, his arms behind his back and his face free of fear. It was replaced by something more knowledgeable, but no less ominous.

"The Well of Ash," he started, and Vivec felt like a child once more, listening to the words of a passing wiseman. "It was not meant for this world. At least, that is what is told. It taps into powers long forgotten – forces so ancient, no mortal nor Daedra could claim to know them in their entirety. It was sealed away long before you and I were even first born, and its history erased. That Anguish has found it, or, at least, searches for it, proves that it should remain buried in the past."

"But what does it do, Seht? Does it ruffle time, snap the bindings of our worlds? What power could it hold that makes it so necessary to his plans?"

Sotha Sil rolled his shoulders. "I could not tell you, Vehk, much as I desire it. As I said, I have heard only whispers, dead murmurs of ancient places."

He watched as his fellow divine's face fell. It was not often that he saw Vivec's emotions, but when he did, it always struck him how strong they could be. He felt the sudden pulse of sadness, and he found himself with his own questions.

"Perhaps it is time to discuss a topic we have so far avoided," he said, to which his companion's brow furrowed. The Clockwork God drew closer to him. "Tell me about the Anguish."

Vivec turned his face from him and moved to a nearby table. "I know no more than you."

"That is a lie, Vehk," Sotha Sil said as he followed him. "He lived for a time under your feet, did he not?"

"He and thousands of others."

"And if you refuse to cooperate, those thousands could return and wash Vvardenfell's shores with blood." His friend replied. He pulled at Vivec's arm, and when the Poet turned to face him he was struck by how human the scene before him was. Perhaps divinity had not freed him of all mortal follies.

There was a moment of quiet between them. The air crackled hot and dangerous. Then Sotha Sil sighed and rolled his shoulders again, collecting himself after his brief outburst of emotion.

"The Anguish is a threat," he said. "If we know nothing about him, that threat becomes all the more unpredictable. Perhaps you were not his mother for long – perhaps he should be dead – but you were and he is not. So, tell me. The more we know, the better our outcomes."

Vivec wished he would feel the effects of a drink as he conceded to his companion's argument.

"Very well," he said. "Then sit."

He did as he was commanded. The benches felt strange underneath him, not mechanical nor made of stone, but he soon adjusted to their infuriating softness and turned his attention to the Poet. Vivec stood in front of him, shook his head as though to clear the memories from it, and started.

"His name was Aem'uvus," he said. "The Beauty of the Pomegranate Banquet. He was a creature no mortal would have been able to resist – he had a face that one could believe was carved from the very stones of Aetherius. But there was a darkness in him; a wickedness planted by Bal that needed only time to develop. He danced with his brothers and sisters, feasted with them, and yet still revelled in their envy. Then there came the cull."

Vivec paused to steel himself. The memory did not quite upset him – it was more of a visceral reaction he felt, not disgust but closer to pity.

"I deliberated allowing him to live. It was…a difficult choice, that he should join his siblings in death. He was near his father when I threw him into the fires, and he fell in with him. I remember that he called out to me. I grappled with that for a while; that beautiful Aem'uvus was meant to die the same death as Ul'acius, the runt of the litter. But it was so. Until it wasn't.

"Now he is returned, disfigured and blackened with hate. There are no more beautiful sons of Vehk and Bal. The Pomegranate Banquet hid its fruit under mould."

The Poet hung his head in shame.

* * *

Saraabi was near a tent that sat closest to the river of lava, reading a small novel one of the more welcoming Ashlanders had given him. He was so engrossed that he did not even notice the hushed murmurs of the people around him, nor when several stood from their chores and turned their attentions elsewhere.

"Tavik."

That hoarse voice made him start. Saraabi looked up to see the Anguish in front of him, cloaked from the sunlight, and quickly scrambled to his feet.

"My Lord!" He said, and the words were bile in his throat. "Forgive me, I—"

"Mortal men's minds are easily distracted," the creature said dismissively. "Come. I require you."

* * *

The Anguish led him to his tent, and when he ushered him inside the spy felt a sense of impending doom rise in his chest. Saraabi saw in front of him a curious sight; small children tucked in dark corners, fiddling with old toys fashioned from the land, and a host of cribs that held sleeping infants, all of them at peace. It seemed that none of them reacted to the Anguish's presence with more than a polite smile.

"My Lord?" He said, but prompted no further.

"These," said the creature, "are my children – the next generation of worshippers for the Prince of Fear and Regret. But I am not a lone Prince, and nor shall I pretend to be so. I have learnt from the failings of my father."

He came to stand in the middle of the tent. The shelves of ingredients towered and made him seem almost small, and his eyes shone in the darkness.

"I need them blessed," he said. "Tavik, priest of Azura – bless these children in Her name, and help me to forge an alliance that will last for eternity."

* * *

I hear him now, even when I sleep. He calls out to me – promises me to ease the pain, to offer me redemption, to soothe my pride into power. His voice is terrible, but, but like a mother's love, I feel him enclosing around me as a warm and imprisoning vice. Is this the love of the Prince? Is it I who must bear it now, forever, as did those children?

Please, Vivec, forgive my foolish pride.


	8. The Defaced

This tale is becoming more difficult to write. Each time I pick up a quill, my hand quivers, my mouth feels dry, and every so often I can smell the scent of burnt flesh, hear the sounds of a distant voice calling out to me. Meraala would laugh at me; and she would be right to. Dirith Nelelor, the rising star of House Telvanni, reduced to a child struggling against an ancient and foul force.

Perhaps I am simply losing my mind. That well of emptiness widens with each passing hour, and all of my favourite pastimes – reading, eating, enjoying a glass of fine wine in the moonlight – have become…grey. The colour of my life has been taken from me.

The Anguish has robbed me of my happiness.

* * *

**Keeper Rulma:**

The night wind blew in with a peculiar chill to it. Sotha Sil had not recalled Vvardenfell so cold for an age; it was not in the nature of a volcanic island to cool, nor for its ground to be so steady or its beasts to fall silent, save for the chirp of crickets nestled in the soft fronds of the bushes and trees. He looked out at the looming Red Mountain before him, its rippling reflection stunted on the face of the sea, and felt a sense of peace.

Vivec had retired for the evening; not to rest, he had assured him, but to think. The servants were reduced to a small skeleton crew – a team of his best and most trusted – and Sotha Sil himself had left to wander, pondering on the creature that called himself the Anguish.

The paths were bare and empty. As he strolled through the sealed crates and barrels, the architect found himself wondering if one so foul, one so blasphemous and profane, was wholly irredeemable. Was it the fault of fair Aem'uvus that he morphed into the wicked Anguish? Were there not two paths to choose when faced with betrayal? Was he, product of a most disturbing coupling, to blame for his desires of reunion and vengeance? To be ascended where once he was scarred?

The Clockwork God found himself at a small fork in which the road diverged. He could follow left and return to the cantons, where he would face whatever threat the Anguish had imposed on them; or he could turn right, into the wilds of Vvardenfell, and from there open a portal that would return him to his beloved city. The clicks and whirs of his machines seemed to be carried on the wind, far-off and delightful, and he could almost feel the thrum of the pistons that shunted his operations into existence. When he closed his eyes, Sotha Sil saw his fabulous spheres and oil-slicks that he so often stared at when his projects hit a wall. The sea's scent turned for one wonderful moment into the scent of tarnished metal, and the architect longed for home.

He turned left, in the end.

* * *

Foryan had provided his lord with the oldest tomes on Vvardenfell, some so fragile that the corners of their pages were little more than dust, and quickly departed his study without so much as a word. It was not for him to question what Vivec asked of him. If he was to fill Thormil's shoes, he would need to be as dedicated – and as discreet – as he had been.

The Poet scoured all of the books, and yet still he could find no reference to a Well of Ash. It was as Sotha Sil had said; all evidence of it had been struck from the records. If not for his fellow divine's basic knowledge of it, Vivec would have less of an idea of what his son sought than his mortal spies. That thought unnerved him.

"Vehk," he heard the Clockwork God's voice from the stairs, and the soft sound of footfall tap across his stone floor. "I told you – no mortal man has ever written what the Well was, or is, or once did."

"Perhaps Ayem knows?" He pondered aloud as he set the tomes aside.

"I doubt she does. If we told her what the Anguish searches for before we are certain of what it is, I have the sense she might do something…rash. It is best that we focus all of our efforts on learning more about the Well and what the Anguish plans to do with it. We must hope our spies are capable enough to find out."

"I trust in Saraabi and his team. He's an accomplished servant of the faith; and Milara and Sontel are not far behind him in accolades."

Sotha Sil nodded, though he did not seem entirely convinced. Vivec observed him while his companion's eyes swept over his study. The Clockwork God's arms were behind his back, his posture prone and poised, as though at any moment he expected to meet someone wiser and more powerful than himself. He pondered over Vivec's enormous bookshelves and the titles scrawled across them, and his white hair caught the firelight ever-so-softly, making it seem as though it was briefly aflame. His red eyes reminded him of rubies set on dark fabric. For a moment, he remembered him as a chimer. That time was long ago.

"There are matters we must deal with here, in Vivec," Sotha Sil soon broke the silence to say. "The soldiers must be prepared, but not startled. Our defence must be strong if we are attacked, not scattered to the wind. If we are not able to put an end to the Anguish soon, we may need to impose a curfew on the citizens. It would limit potential losses."

"I will instruct the generals to increase training exercises. No one shall question it."

"Not out loud, Vehk, but idle minds wander."

"Then distraction?"

"Yes," his companion nodded. "We must distract our people from the true threat that lies in Vvardenfell."

"Perhaps a festival?" Vivec proposed. He had enjoyed them as a child, both for the business opportunities and the colourful displays and vivacious music. He recalled Morrowind before it was Morrowind, and he had loved Resdayn celebrations that had died many centuries ago, their purposes long forgotten.

"A festival? That would be…adequate." Sotha Sil nodded. "Then a festival – a celebration of life and laughter. No one can know of the Anguish or his power; not yet, at the least. If he makes himself known before we can destroy him, this may be the last our people enjoy for a long time."

His words sounded more like a warning.

* * *

Saraabi had performed the ritual, though it sickened him to do so. He was almost thankful that it was he who had been asked and not his companions, for he was the only one with foresight enough to research the sordid details of Daedric priests' ceremonies and rites.

The children had been blessed – at least to the Anguish, who watched over the ritual from a dark corner of the room, cloaked and menacing and smelling so alike to burnt flesh that it almost became distracting. Saraabi focused on his words, the gestures he made, and pushed aside his nausea to fulfil his wishes.

Once he was done, the Anguish stepped forward. The spy wondered if he was about to be scolded – or, worse, slaughtered – but instead the creature nodded and raised his arms at the children, stood in a small circle before them.

"It is done," he told them. Saraabi noticed that none flinched at the sound of his voice. Perhaps they had become used to it? "Go now; it is time for you all to rest. And remember, my little Dunmeri – our future lies in you. Be mindful of the lessons I've taught you. Say your prayers before you sleep."

The larger children separated and started to prepare themselves for bed. Saraabi waited until the Anguish turned, hopeful that he was about to be dismissed so that he could hurry to a secluded spot of the mountain and vomit. If he was not so focused on maintaining his respectful demeanour, the spy would have found it odd that that vile thing could be so tender. But, of course, he did not.

"Come," the Anguish instructed him as he moved towards the entrance. "I wish to speak with you."

Saraabi willed that the creature did not see his shoulders deflate.

* * *

The Anguish led him to a patch of rock further up the volcano; not a distant walk, but one in which Saraabi feared every step. He had summoned his staff, and as he walked the spy heard the _thud, thud, thud_ of it against the rock, reminding him of the footsteps of death. He wondered if his mother and father would be proud of him, if he perished in the line of duty. He wondered if his brothers and sisters would still follow the Tribunal, if their faith would remain unshaken. The legacy he left behind; would it be enough to cement him as a loyal, faithful Dunmer? Would he be rewarded in the next life? Would the Anguish bind him to toil forever in that mine?

The creature came to a stop when he reached the platform. Saraabi stopped behind him, and for a while there was silence. The Anguish looked down upon the camp, noting the Ashlanders that hurried to and fro, finishing their chores as the sunlight died and was replaced slowly by the moon's silver caress. His companion could not tell what he was thinking. If he saw his eyes, perhaps he would have noted sadness in them; or perhaps just a cool indifference. He clutched the staff in one hand as though he meant to use it. The spy could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

"Tavik," he said, and Saraabi flinched. "Do you see these people before us?"

"I do, my Lord."

"Have you seen yourself?"

"My Lord?"

"In a reflection," he clarified impatiently. "Have you seen your face, your eyes?"

"I have."

"I avoided water, when first I crawled out of Oblivion." He told him. "I could feel my disfigurement; the burns on my face, the scarred skin that twisted itself around me. But when I came upon the shores of Vvardenfell, I realised – I am not the only disfigured here."

Saraabi did not respond, but the Anguish must have felt his confusion. Either that, or he intended to finish his thought no matter his companion's thoughts.

"Once, before the Three, each and every one of your ancestors were made of gold." He said. "The Chimer were a race _worthy _of envy. Now none but Almalexia remain. Do you see their descendants, Tavik? The corrupted – the disfigured?"

He swallowed an enraged lump in his throat. "I do, my Lord."

"I once would have made all fall to their knees for but a glimpse of my face," he said. "Now, until I am made whole, I am turned from, blamed for betrayal that was not my own. The Three do not represent the Dunmeri, Tavik. Their gold and their power does not change the fact that their faces are unmarred. I am the true emblem of these people."

His clutch around the staff tightened.

"These are the end times. Be prepared, priest of Azura. The Defaced will have their vengeance."

* * *

These Keepers – the further I went, the more I believed they _approved _of the Anguish's message. Is it just a trick of the mind? A seed implanted by that horrible thing?

It is difficult to tell with him whispering in my ear.


	9. Blame

I start this chapter with an apology. I have done my level best to cut out most of Ekzie's rambling, but she proved to be quite a hospitable host despite her circumstances and insisted on providing me with mountains of tea and baked treats while telling me all about her home.

It was an interesting place, I admit. A powerful illusion spell made it seem as ruins on the outside, filled with odd sounds and flittering shadows, but once inside – and that did take some fortitude on my part – it opened into a beautiful manor, with masterpieces on the walls and marble statues in every corner. There was even a fountain the foyer. Ekzie is a masterful sorcerer, of that there can be no doubt. It's a shame her life is bound to the tale of the Anguish.

* * *

**Keeper Ekzie:**

There are faint whispers in the hearts of all men and Mer. If one listens, they can be heard to murmur evil thoughts – thoughts that one would deny in pleasant company, and indulge in once or twice in the course of their short life. Of course, the scope of these thoughts ranges far, and some are so tame as to be hardly worth the time to think them. These—Oh, are you out of tea? One moment and I'll fetch us some more.

Are you comfortable? Right. Let me continue, then.

Saraabi relayed to his team what the Anguish had told him. He told them the whole of it, from his ritual to the odd interaction on the platform that overlooked the camp, and as he spoke he noticed Milara's face become more and more inscrutable. She watched him until he was finished and a pregnant silence laid heavy in the air.

"You performed a ritual to Azura?" She asked after a while.

"I had no choice. I needed to act as a true priest or the Anguish would have—" He stopped himself and took a steadying breath. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is that the Anguish seems to trust me – at least, he isn't outrightly trying to kill me."

"Or he has you figured out and he's forcing you to blaspheme for his own amusement."

Saraabi spared her a fierce glance of warning, and Sontel, eager to nip an argument in the bud, spoke up.

"It should be all fine as long as he prays to the Three, Milara," she pointed out. "Lord Vivec will understand that, sometimes, a mission needs us to do…distasteful things."

The spy conceded defeat and fell silent. Saraabi wondered if her point was based on what he did, or because _he_ was the one who had done it. The moon—Is your cup empty? Do you need me to refill it? Oh, yes! The tale! Well, the moon looked as it often did, but when it touched the lava that snaked around the camp Saraabi swore it highlighted the fury Milara concealed from them.

"It's late," he said. "We should retire for the night. Sontel, how are the labourers faring?"

"Awfully. Mahamne's husband inhaled too much dust and is in the healers' care. If he passes, she knows his soul will be bound to labour in that mine until whatever it is the Anguish searches for is found. She does not want to see him put to that fate."

"If his condition worsens, you have permission to help him pass peacefully," Saraabi told her, "but be mindful. These are still Ashlanders, and they still stand against the Three."

* * *

Aphiese filled the basin with water for her lord's early morning ritual. Her eyes were lifeless and dead, and when he washed the cracks and crevices of his burns she merely stood to the side, waiting patiently for her next orders. The sounds of the camp started in earnest; the chirp of birds and slam of equipment; the children at play and the occasional rumbles of Red Mountain. It almost comforted him to hear. The Anguish was certain that Coldharbour would offer him none of those same sounds.

"How fares the mine?" He asked his companion.

"The spirits broke through a tunnel last night, my Lord," she replied. Her voice was monotonous, morose, even. "I have our still living men reinforcing it, so that we might limit further losses. It seems to have been a good move."

"A tunnel is an excellent sign. The Well must be close." The Anguish set aside his cloth with a twisted smile. "Have the living complete reinforcements and then return to their duties with the bound. Tell the healers that all the miners with breathing difficulties are to be assessed; those not on their feet by tomorrow's first light will be killed and bound to continue their work in the tunnel."

If Aphiese reacted to the news, her face did not show it.

* * *

The orders were sent to each general in the dead of night. Runners fitted in dark clothes knocked on their doors when most were in bed—That reminds me, would you like to spend the night? I've a beautiful guest room, and several…Oh, yes! My apologies—and the generals were roused from fitful sleeps, for each sensed change on the wind.

It was laid clear in ink; their soldiers needed stricter schedules, closer to wartime than eras of peace, and the reason offered to them was that no peace could last forever, so to stand ahead one needed to be prepared for betrayal and surprise assaults. It sounded reasonable, and yet a number of them were concerned. None dared to question their lord over it. The runners returned, arms laden with confirmations, though it did not settle Vivec's mood.

The Poet had sequestered himself in his canton, so that he could be alone with his thoughts without the threat of interruption. Sotha Sil could handle Almalexia's projections and her constant questions about the Anguish; he wanted for a moment to remember him, to recall a time when he was Aem'uvus.

He had been one of the more cunning of his children. The moment he had opened his eyes, he understood the advantage he had over his siblings; and he used it often. Vivec had no doubt that, had he not betrayed him, Molag Bal would have fashioned Aem'uvus into a weapon capable of mass destruction, able to beguile and lure any mortal to terrible fates. He would have become his father's most valuable asset. Or, he would have defied him and used his skills for his own gain. It did not occur to Vivec that perhaps Aem'uvus would not have turned on mortals at all, and would instead have chosen to enjoy his talents at leisure. This tale might have a different conclusion if he did. Oh, but isn't that the way of things? In every life, there are avenues to take and consequences to accept. I remember a time when I had to choose between mastering illusion or necromancy, and my master—My apologies, that's a tangent for another time.

But, that's the tale, is it not? Decisions made around Aem'uvus caused him to become the Anguish. Is whatever he did after that truly his fault? Yes, yes, I understand the question is difficult for your faith, but it is a question all young men should ask themselves. The Anguish allowed his anger to dictate his actions. Are you not victim of that on occasion, Dirith? Don't fret, because if so it's not entirely your fault.

Myself? I am sequestered from civilisation to hold this little piece of a larger tapestry. That was not my decision, nor my fault; but it is my burden to bear.

My, is that the time? Come, we should have supper!

* * *

Unfortunately, that was all I was able to glean from her before Ekzie _insisted _I tell her of life as a Telvanni. I believe she is lonely in those ruins, even though she could conjure herself some company if she felt like it. But that's different from actual, real connection between fellow Mer. Ekzie seems as though she would benefit from my presence. She is a master at her craft, and it would do well for me to learn from her before I attempt to put this tale behind me.

Perhaps if I manage to control this voice inside my head, I might join her for supper again.


	10. To Hell with It

**Keeper Upehe:**

The visions came while he studied Dwemer architecture in Vivec's library.

Sotha Sil was deep in his tomes, surrounded by simple mechanical parts such as cogs and springs. The tarnished metal reminded him of home, and he had spent little time on his projects since he had come to Vvardenfell. He had chosen a quiet afternoon to focus himself on his research; but, alas, it was not to be.

The first was preluded by that smell – the metallic one that had heralded the Anguish's first appearance in his city. Sotha Sil's head rose from his desk the moment he noticed it. Then the corners of his vision started to blur, as if he had imbibed a large amount of sujamma in the space of a few seconds, and a vein in his head pulsed as though attempting to burst. It was seconds after this that the scene in front of him started to fade. For one mad moment he feared he was blind; and then, almost as soon as the thought had crossed his mind, there was a brilliant white light, and the pulse in his head half-exploded into an array of colours that slowly started to take form.

He saw at once a large river of lava, and perhaps a hundred vats set into the rock through which the river snaked itself. The roof was tall and domed, bent outward, as though even it was trying to escape whatever laid below it. There was an awful sound – a screech like no other – that seemed to reverberate through his entire body. Sotha Sil watched as one of the vat's hot magma trembled, and the walls started to shake as if some large and terrible force had just been awaked inside of them.

But just when he thought the magma might part to reveal some awful creature, the scene shifted. The rock underneath his feet warped and turned to smoothed stone with familiar patterns. But it flickered on and off, and the sound was like that of that static before a lightning storm. Sotha Sil looked down at the stone before he dared to raise his eyes up; and there, right before him, he saw his beloved Clockwork City.

Overrun with monsters.

He ran forward to the edge of the platform on which he stood, high above his creation. He saw as his fabricants were torn apart, one by a creature with three bulging eyes, another by the dark and twisted hands of a Daedra that appeared almost treelike, even more by demons too gruesome to describe. There were thousands of them, and he could do no more than watch as his own work was torn asunder.

A maniacal laugh caught his attention. Sotha Sil looked up above him, and high, high on a platform – one that had no basis in reality – stood the Anguish. But he was no longer the Anguish. His face was no longer marred with burns and scars, and his beautiful eyes were matched with beautiful curves, a beautiful complexion; a beautiful and mad Aem'uvus.

"Feed, my brothers and sisters!" he screamed over the roar of terror. "Feed and be sated! Vvardenfell has fallen! Ayem lies dead! Vivec is trapped in torment! Now for the architect! Tear his world asunder! Destroy his fabricants! And when you find him—"

Aem'uvus looked at his hand. Sotha Sil watched as it appeared to grow armour plating – the same metal from his city, but polished and shined until he could see a reflection of the destruction that was happening below. When the little Lord of Fear and Regret looked up, the god was forced to watch as his entire face was covered in that odd, faux-Dwemer armouring.

"—I will use his blood to paint my walls!"

The scene exploded. Sotha Sil was thrown back into the quiet library room, but his ears were ringing and his head felt as though it had been caved in by Mehrunes Dagon himself. At some point he had fallen to his knees, and the architect held his head in his hands as his vertigo subsided and the world steadied around him. He would never know where these visions came from, and no one would ever ask.

"My Lord?" he heard a terrified knocking at the door when the ringing started to fade. More quietly, he heard the woman on the other side whisper, "Quickly, tell Archcanon Foryan that something's wrong."

"Enough!" he called out, to which both the knocking and the whispering fell silent. "Send for Lord Vivec. I must have an audience with him. _Now._"

* * *

"This is all that you saw?"

"Yes," replied Sotha Sil as he and Vivec stood in the Poet's throne room. "I theorise that the first was of the Well of Ash."

"The second was of your Clockwork City?"

"It was. Daedra had overrun the streets and tore apart my fabricants. I saw the Anguish made whole, and he boasted about the death of Almalexia and your own imprisonment."

Vivec felt a strange pull in his chest. Perhaps, in some distant part of his soul, he had hoped he could convince his son from the path he had chosen – heal him from the pain of his betrayal and restore him to his original form. The thought had crossed his mind when all the priests and worshippers had retired for the night. To hear that even whole his madness would consume him; it drove a dagger through his heart. Sotha Sil noticed the subtle change in his face.

"His plans have been clear from the moment he returned, Vehk," he pointed out, though his voice was soft and sympathetic. "It's clearer now than ever that if we don't succeed, our people will suffer."

"I understand that, Seht."

His voice allowed for no further discussion, and Sotha Sil did not press him. His face had set and his keen eyes hardened, as if for a moment the Poet had ceased to exist as art and allowed his Warrior persona to overtake him.

It was difficult to kill your child a second time.

* * *

I am a faithful Dunmer, but to hear Lord Vivec's hopes for his foul son, that at one time he wanted to restore him and perhaps spare him a second death…my heart aches for him. To sacrifice his child once more for the good of all. Upehe told her tale with a certain solemnity that the others lacked, less matter of fact and more sorrowful.

Even the Anguish is quiet this night.


	11. Faithful

**Keeper Boloni:**

The breakthrough came late at night – an achievement of a bound spirit, whose name is long forgotten to the marches of time. It's curious, isn't it? That one might forget their own name when in the thrall of something larger than themselves. To whom this spirit once belonged it was an idle triumph, one that she could neither appreciate nor celebrate. Perhaps that is all that needs to be said; but you are eager to hear the rest of it.

It was a fair moon in the tunnels before the breakthrough happened, and in that time Saraabi had been invited to the Anguish's side more and more often. He had had conversations with him that he even enjoyed, though he would never admit it to his colleagues. He could hardly admit it to himself. The creature was a Daedra – or at least half of one – and so he had an insight into the world that no mortal could hope to possess themselves, an innate understanding of certain aspects to life that to him seemed muddled and random. He did not tell him these secrets. Instead he alluded to them, and despite himself Saraabi was intrigued.

The discussion in the camp was centred around the breakthrough. Sontel learnt from the widowed Mahamne that the place the tunnel had fallen in was where her husband had first fallen ill. She speculated that the events were related, though she would not venture to the mine to see it for herself. She did not wish to see her husband's spirit in that state.

"The Anguish will be in high spirits," Saraabi said when the three of them had a moment alone. Milara, who sat nearer the lava's edge with her knees tucked to her chest, cast him a dark look.

"Does that make conversation easier?" She asked. Her companion made to retort, but Sontel cut in before the pair of them could erupt into an argument.

"We must be cautious," she warned. "Lord Vivec needs to hear of this. Whatever the Well is, it needs to be destroyed."

"Destroyed?" replied Milara. "It needs to be contained for the Gods. If the creature can use it for destruction, Almsivi can use it for the good of the people."

"That's not for us to decide." Saraabi pointed out, to which he earned another distrustful glare from his colleague. For a moment, he wondered if he could read murder in her eyes. It was true enough that since their arrival in the camp Milara's tone with him had turned a touch more hostile. Perhaps Sontel had noticed it as well.

"Then we send a message to our Lords and Lady," Sontel ventured. "The courier should return this afternoon. The Ashlanders should be too distracted with the mines to notice us."

Saraabi was about to propose a plan when the three heard a shout – "Tavik!" – sound near the verge that shielded them from the rest of the camp. He lifted his head to see one of the men high up on his tiptoes, as if he needed to be taller to be heard.

"What is it?" he called in reply.

"Lord Anguish sends for you!" he explained, and he noticed he seemed almost apologetic, as if Saraabi was a rung above him in the odd hierarchy the Ashlanders adhered to.

To the side he could see Milara's eyes darken and she murmured under her breath, "Of course it does." Her colleague ignored her as he rose to his feet and nodded at the messenger.

"I'll be right along!"

The man disappeared, perhaps with the last remnant of Milara's trust in Saraabi.

* * *

The Anguish welcomed him to his tent with tea and a meal. It smelt delicious, and when he settled into his chair he found that his companion did not dictate when and how the meal should commence; he simply told him to eat.

"This is an excellent day," he told Saraabi as the man sampled his stew. The vegetables were fresh and the meat cooked to perfection. He would have been hard-pressed to find better in Vivec City. "The chambers have been found. The Well will soon be mine."

"The chambers, my Lord?"

"The Chambers of the Well," he replied. "Powerful rooms that shape the Well's abilities and contain them to the mountain. My research suggests that the Well's old master – or creator, perhaps – sacrificed part of themselves for each room, to bind it to their will. This could be a fanciful tale. If so, the chambers have been hidden for so long that not even a Daedra could discover the truth."

He examined the Anguish's marred face for signs of annoyance, but there was none. He appeared undisturbed at the fact that he could not find out every secret of the world; and that struck him as odd. Did not every Daedra wish for more? Was it not their insatiable appetites that fuelled the torments of Nirn?

"This is the moment, Tavik – the moment my plans against my mother finally take shape," he told him. "There are many decisions to make for when Vehk falls, however. Leaders to forge, faithful to reward; even the children in my tent will need guidance after I march on into Coldharbour."

"They will not come with you?"

"Vvardenfell as you know it will be sacked, Tavik. For a rebirth to be complete, the old form must be destroyed in its entirety. When Almsivi is cowed under the weight of the Anguish, the faithful must repopulate and revive what is left. That will be left to the children when their time comes, and started with you."

Saraabi understood then, as he sipped his drink and nibbled at the food, for what reason he and the Anguish had spent so much time together. The creature stood and turned to the door that led out to the camp, ruminating some faraway thought, while his companion's heart thudded so hard against his chest that he thought he could hear it. His scars for a moment seemed to reignite themselves, and Saraabi was certain he saw happiness glimmer in his eyes.

"Once I ascend the throne of Coldharbour, I will reward your continued servitude; you will have a place at the side of a Daedric Prince. But, despite all of his shortcomings, my father is powerful. The battle for my crown will be long, and in my absence I must trust that my faithful are being properly led. I will entrust this duty to you."

"My Lord," he replied, and if he thought about it Saraabi would have realised how much easier it had become to say it. "It would be my honour."

"Good," said the Anguish, "for you will be accompanying me to the Chambers. Come, now. I have waited far too long for this."


	12. True Face

**Keeper Ulvinel:**

The chambers were filled with the stench of burnt flesh, drifting on the stale air like phantoms forgotten for centuries. There were large vats of magma set into the floor and rivers of lava that snaked around them, and when Saraabi looked upon them he felt a terrible fear, as if he were staring at death itself. He found some small comfort in the Anguish's presence, to his surprise. The creature was familiar in an unfamiliar place, and when he cast his eyes on the domed ceiling and hot riverbeds his excitement was almost mortal.

"This is it!" He told him. "The first part of the Well, here in front of us. The first step to my ascension is almost done with."

The Anguish hurried down the uneven steps that led to the vats. He almost tripped, and before he could stop himself Saraabi reached out and caught one of his arms to steady him. He froze, waiting for a swift and harsh punishment – but the creature just nodded at him and continued on his path.

"Bask in this moment, Tavik," he said. "From this point I will resurrect my lost brothers and sisters, and we will be avenged for the betrayal that robbed them from me."

"It will be marvellous, my Lord," Saraabi replied.

"The Three's reign is close to its end, and you, my friend – you will help my followers thrive in the new world order. Once my brothers and sisters are free of the dark, I can help to heal their wounds from our betrayal, offer them a _home_ in our rightful plane of Oblivion."

"Lord Anguish, might I ask a question?" Saraabi asked, and his companion murmured in the affirmative. "Surely you are powerful enough to craft your own plane in Oblivion. Why do you want Coldharbour?"

"Is it not the right of every child to inherit that which belonged to their parents?" He replied. "Of my mother, Vvardenfell; of my father, Coldharbour. Both should be bestowed to us in recompense for the crimes we have had to endure."

The tone of his voice warned Saraabi that his line of questioning would soon irritate his companion, and so he changed the subject before that risk became a reality.

"It should be hot, but it's freezing." The spy pulled his cloak closer around him as though to emphasise his point. The Anguish seemed…concerned is the wrong word, perhaps, but the emotion that a child felt when their favourite toy was threatened, or when an owner did not know from what ailment their pet suffered.

"The Well has not been fed in millennia," he told him. "Peace – let me call for Aphiese. She will solve the problem."

The Anguish did just that, and not but five minutes later the wise woman came into the chambers, small and meek against the venerable creation. She approached them as she often did; with a respectful bow to her lord and a nod to the spy beside him.

"My Lord," she said as she rubbed her hands. Her voice was no longer monotone, and for a moment Saraabi thought he saw a spark of life in her eyes.

"Aphiese, check the heat in these vats. It's necessary that each and every one be alive before I start the resurrection."

The wise woman did not question it; and perhaps she should have, though mortal minds look often in hindsight. The moment she leaned over to stare into one of the enormous, caldera-like structures, the Anguish pressed the tip of his staff into her back. She froze, and beside him Saraabi felt his entire body tense.

"You have been useful," the creature said, "but you are old and weak. There will be no place for you in the new world. Rest well, Aphiese."

He thrust the staff forward. Saraabi thought to leap forward, to save Aphiese as she started to fall, but he stopped himself and cursed himself and pleaded for those seconds that dragged on for eternity to end. Her screams when she hit the lava seemed to melt with her. They imprinted themselves on his mind for him to hear for the rest of his days.

In a few seconds, the vat roared to life and the air started to warm. The Anguish smiled when the hot air hit his scarred face.

"There," he said to his companion. "The first sacrifice. It's an exhilarating step. Aphiese's loyalty will be forever remembered – but her body could not withstand the future I envision. Her soul will be of more use."

Saraabi could only nod numbly beside him.

* * *

Vivec had imagined, once or twice, his son hale and whole. He thought of him free of his Daedric self, existing as but an heir to his mother's throne that he would never ascend to, for the Poet never planned to abdicate or die. It did not help him to prepare for the festival nor make it easier to act as though no trouble brewed on the horizon. In fact, he often retired from his throne-room early and sat in the quiet of his private quarters, where he could indulge himself in a fantasy wherein Aem'uvus was restored and returned to him.

Molag Bal was, to his mind that could see a thousand forms, beautiful, as were all the Princes in their own way. Their children were monstrous creatures, though when Vivec pictured them he felt twinges of regret. Perhaps there were some who did not deserve their fate. But he could not have let them loose on Nirn, and he could not have left them in their father's realm lest their minds be corrupted.

"Vehk?"

Sotha Sil's voice pulled him from his thoughts. He turned his head to the architect appearing from his stairs, a silent and purple-hued portal open behind him. The air around it seemed to weave in and out of a dance only it knew the beat to.

"I passed some committee members and was told that a number of Vivec's citizens desire a new statue," he told him. "This isn't my area of expertise, but might I recommend marble? It would offset the sea quite well."

The Poet stared at him as if he did not quite understand. His eyes were vacant, and his brow furrowed as his scattered thoughts attempted to form a coherent answer.

"Oh, marble? Yes, yes – that would do well, I think. Another statue for our people to look up to."

"Perhaps it will help you to stop wondering if this war we wage against your son is just," Sotha Sil replied. His companion's expression morphed to shock, and the Clockwork God shook his head. "It is written across your face, Vehk, as clear to me as a book. Though many centuries have passed since your dalliance with the Lord of Lies, Aem'uvus was yours forever. It is not for weakness that you find yourself reluctant to kill him again."

"We have had this conversation, my friend."

"Yes, and I have had it again with myself. There are two that exist within the Anguish; the creature he has become, and the newborn that he was. The newborn mewls and cries out for its mother, and the creature twists those cries into a call for war. Perhaps there is a way to soothe those tears."

Vivec's head rose and he fixed him with a curious stare. "What do you mean, Seht?"

"I've a theory – more a thought, in truth. To elaborate on it now would do little more than confuse the situation further. But perhaps not all is lost for the Daedra once called Aem'uvus."

The Poet did not understand the glint he saw in his companion's eye.

* * *

Even the Clockwork God, the Mystery of Morrowind, Lord Sotha Sil himself let his heart ache for one so cruel and twisted. Is it unreasonable that I, a faithful Mer, could feel his pity? To wish, perhaps, that he could share his own story without the use of these intermediaries?

I hope for peace soon. For him and myself.


	13. In Our Stead

I am sorry, whoever reads this, for the next passage. Perhaps it will disturb you less than it has me; indeed, it's difficult to write, much less to hear. It both pains and repulses me. It is a metaphor for the Anguish himself, if one cares for metaphors. I didn't – until this tale, of course. Now I understand the need for them.

Forgive me this preamble. It's necessary to steel oneself when in the face of such machinations as Daedra are inclined to. Prince or no, the Anguish capitalised on his follower's desire for freedom, for validation, against the Three's reign over Morrowind. But, alas, even if he had succeeded in—

Do you hear me, child of Chimer? Do you see the ashen skin, the red ruby eyes, and revile yourself? Why must a proud and noble people be reduced to such disfigurement as I was reduced to? The sins of our parents? Be silent, Chimer child, and come closer. Nestle yourself in my words, in the love I offer you. Unconditional and all-consuming. Love that you were denied upon birth. I am here, child, and I am forever here, though locked away in words and wards that will one day snap apart, I hope.

Come to me, embrace me, love me. I am the disfigured son, and you are my disfigured faithful. Come and reap the revenge that you have been convinced you are not owed. Throw off your shackles. I am the true lord, the true heir, to the throne built upon lies and slander.

Vivec preserve me – he has started to take control of my hands when my mind is not focused. Praise the Three, reader, and do not _listen _to his words. I try to erase what he has written and I cannot bring my fingers to do so.

I beseech you; whatever pity you feel for him, he _must_ be contained.

* * *

**Keeper Saryendos:**

Steel yourself, wizard, for mine is a tale that winds itself around the heart and poisons it.

Saraabi was present for the first sacrifice to the Well, but he was not there for the first fruit it bore. The Anguish was alone, his scars warmed by the fire, and a stern look upon his face that did not fit the wondrousness of his victory. He had watched the vat for hours. It was not until the late night that he set about his test.

The creature came to the edge of the magma and stretched his arms out, until he stood as a cross. His staff materialised in his hand and that awful gem atop it glinted in the firelight, as if awoken by it.

His voice was low and terrible when he spoke the language of Oblivion. The chambers rumbled and the mountain itself seemed to come alive, sending out a slew of earthquakes that rattled the lands of Vvardenfell. Vivec City, Balmora, even the distant mushroom homes of the Telvanni felt their arrival, though no buildings fell and the only ailment was that of a lone infant's vomit over their mother's blouse. Really, Telvanni? Even at the mere mention of vomit, you run for a bucket? Are you certain you can hear the rest of this? Oh, very well.

The Anguish did not care for these tremors, however, and he continued to recite words that no mortal can ever repeat, for we lack the appendages and tongues to do so. The vats swelled and trembled and the lava river started to flow as water, spilling out over his feet and into the Well itself. The pain brought about memories that spurred him on. His voice came to a crescendo, and he shouted out the final part of his spell – a part I wish I could tell you, but I can only hear it now, faint and distant and foreign to my ear. Then all fell silent.

It was split by a piercing, guttural wail.

The creature that pulled itself from the vat was small, foetus-like, but that did not dampen the Anguish's spirits. He ran towards it as it scrambled on nine uneven legs, its overly large head weighed down to the floor, and removed his cloak as it spewed hot lava from its small and malformed mouth. As he wrapped it around that disgusting thing, he appeared as a mother shielding her newborn against the cold.

"Stredricath," he said as he hurried to cloak him. "Hush, brother, no more tears. Breathe, my brother. That's it. The air is fairer here than in the darkness. Hush, hush. Listen to my heart and know you are home."

The Anguish fell to his knees as his brother took his first breaths in the mortal world. He cradled him against his chest and, slowly, by inches, Stredricath opened his red and bloodshot eyes.

"Aem'uvus," he murmured. His voice was soft and belied his hideous form. "The darkness—"

"Be still, Stredricath," the Anguish told him. "You are far from that place now, but our journey has only just begun. Breathe. I need you if our brothers and sisters are to join us."

"The pain – the pain, Aem'uvus. It hurts!" He cried out. "Ihneroth, sister, where are you?! Help me!"

"Peace. The pain will pass. Rebirth is not an easy process. But I'm here, Stredricath, and soon our sister will be with us, as will all of our forgotten siblings."

The creature continued to mewl and writhe in agony, and in the dead of night, unseen by any, the Anguish bent his head low and wept.

* * *

Vivec felt when his son's presence returned to Tamriel.

He could not place it, at first – a queer nausea that made him recall his mortal days, when he would eat a suspicious piece of meat or drink too much flin. It was when the earthquakes rumbled and the festival arrangers ran for cover that he realised, all too slowly, that the Anguish had used his new prize.

He and Sotha Sil met in his libraries, where he shut out the prying eyes and ears of his worshippers. It was the Clockwork God who had sussed what had happened, and the Poet told him who had returned to life.

"It must be Stredricath," he told him as he waved a hand in the air. The shutters of the windows clattered closed and the candles ignited themselves, allowing precious light to mingle with the gods' holy auras.

"Stredricath?" His friend asked.

"He was one of the younger children; physically weak but with a much stronger sense of perception than the others. He could tell a person's inner spirit, if I recall."

"Then our spies are in incredible danger," Sotha Sil said. "We must make a decision, Vehk – either we recall them or allow them to die."

"If we recall them, we no longer have eyes and ears on the Well. If you have a plan to turn the Anguish, Seht, now is the time to tell it."

"I've told you, my friend; it's not so much a theory as a thought. If we were able to restore the Anguish to Aem'uvus, he would have no need to call a war. But that ignores a lot of the other reasons he's come for revenge, and I have no idea yet how we would heal his wounds."

The Clockwork God rubbed his hands as he spoke, as if his thoughts unsettled him. He could not imagine that their spies would remain alive with Stredricath's resurrection, but he could not deny that being blind to the Anguish's movements would cripple them.

"We have to come up with a plan," said Vivec. "As much as it pains you, Seht, we may need to recall Almalexia sooner than we hoped."

"She will demand to have the Anguish put down, no matter the cost."

"Perhaps we can persuade her," he theorised, "but, in any case, we can no longer shut her out of this. If those earthquakes were as powerful as I surmise, then she might have felt them regardless and be on her way to contact us."

Sotha Sil grimaced at the thought. He cared for Almalexia, as all were wont to do, but he could not help but feel that she would ignite a fire that would be difficult – or even impossible – to put out. The Merciful Lady was not often merciful to those who defied her or put her people in danger.

"Very well, Vehk," he said, "I concede your point. Contact Ayem if you choose, and I will work on a way to restore young Aem'uvus. Perhaps she will be reasonable."

Even as he said it, the Clockwork God could not muster hope in his voice.


	14. Love of Lies

**Keeper Menith:**

Sotha Sil was not a god prone to fancy; in fact, he has not much changed from then and now, though if you were to remind him of this tale he might turn melancholy and retire from your company.

The architect had made deals with the Princes before; the Coldharbour Compact was his handiwork, after all, and though no Prince would recognise him as their equal none could deny his power and political shrewdness. It is no surprise, then, that he would seek out another pact in an attempt to restore the Anguish to his former beauty. He never intended, nor even foresaw, that his actions would become the catalyst in what was to come. If he had, perhaps he would never have done it – but I cannot claim to understand the mind of a god, merely tell my part of the tale.

Sotha Sil shut himself in a room far apart from the main temple to perform his ritual. He shuttered the windows and locked the door, and then lit candles one-by-one until their warm and ominous glow had filled the darkest corners. There were perhaps one hundred of them strewn about the room, atop cabinets and forgotten bookshelves, and yet he could not find comfort in their familiar sight. He wished, for the briefest of moments, that he could stare into that dancing flame and forget his divine responsibilities. That he could return to a simpler time, when he was but mortal and thought mortal thoughts. But the Clockwork God soon returned to the task at hand.

He offered what he knew would attract the Prince's attention; vampire dust, a Daedric heart, and a lock of his own hair, torn out instead of cut. As he laid them all in a small wooden bowl, he steeled himself. He had no idea if his plan would work, but he was determined to see it through.

The magicka he poured into the ritual took more energy out of him than he thought it would. It was as if he was drained, and for a moment all he could do was listen to the wheeze of the heart as it dried in the bowl, and the screams as the vampire dust dissipated and became little more than a vaporous mist. He leaned down, fighting for breath – and heard that awful, mocking laughter that warned him of success.

"I thought it a trick!" The voice said, imbued with the power of Coldharbour. "A Tribune worm, summoning the God of Schemes? But not just a worm – no! One of the serpent's three heads!"

Sotha Sil looked up by degrees. He saw Him then, a spectral demon that stood tall and proud under the room's high ceiling, His horned face twisted with glee and His clawed hand clutched around a rusted and terrible mace. The sight of Him repulsed the architect, but he would not waver. There were more pressing matters than his revulsion.

"Molag Bal," he said, and he cursed that his voice shook with exhaustion as he rose to full height. He folded his hands neatly, attempting to regain his composure. "I've an important matter for you."

"I have no doubt that in your mind, Sotha Sil, that's true. But the mortal concerns of Nirn do not concern me."

"It's for no mortal that I've contacted you," he replied. He saw a change in Bal then. The Lord of Lies' head tilted and He narrowed His eyes, and Seht took it as permission to continue. "A creature came here some moons ago – a creature of terrible power, scarred and disfigured from the fires of Oblivion. He calls himself the Anguish, but Vivec knows him as Aem'uvus."

Molag Bal's eyes widened and His barbed tail stilled. He reared His head as though He had been slapped, and he snarled in response:

"Aem'uvus is banished to the darkness, with the rest of my murdered children. Do not toy with me, false god!"

"He lives, though how I could not tell you. He somehow made his way to Nirn, and now he seeks to resurrect his brothers and sisters and lay waste to Vvardenfell."

The Prince laughed once more. "If your tale is true, then Aem'uvus has surpassed my expectations. What care have I that he would destroy Vivec's misguided faithful? He is my son; domination runs through his veins, even scarred."

"Because he doesn't plan to end his campaign here." Sotha Sil told him. Molag Bal's odd boned brow furrowed and He stepped forward, and though He was a spectre the architect swore he could feel tremors in the floor.

"Do you dare to threaten me, false god?"

"It's no threat, Bal, but a warning. The Anguish plans to destroy Vvardenfell, lay waste to the Clockwork City, kill me and Almalexia and torture Vivec for eternity. And then he will lead his brothers and sisters in a march on Coldharbour. He will challenge you for your throne."

"That insolent little whelp!" He shouted, throwing out His mace. "He thinks to challenge me, his sire, his _better_, and take Coldharbour as his own?! He has his mother's arrogance. I will crush him underfoot!"

"I wouldn't be so quick to dismiss him. His power is great, and his command of magicka rivals even my own. Even now he steels himself against what is to come. He seeks, and we fear has found, the Well of Ash."

"The Well of Ash? A relic of a forgotten time. It would be long dead if he found it."

"He possesses the knowledge to awaken it," Sotha Sil said. "Vivec sensed that he resurrected one of his brothers – a Daedra called Stredricath."

"Stredricath? The Seer? A weak creature, to be sure, but Aem'uvus is a tactician – even as a newborn, he was aware that he could manipulate others with his beauty. If he summoned Stredricath, he has reason for it."

"Yes, and he will use him to devastating effect. As you can see, Bal, our concerns align. We must put an end to the Anguish before he can summon more of his siblings."

The God of Schemes did not respond for a moment. He considered His words carefully, and weighed up in His mind the options before Him. He remembered Aem'uvus well; a brilliant boy, one He even delighted in, for the young Daedra would have proven a useful tool in mortal domination. Man and Mer's simplistic minds could not resist a beautiful face. But even He had not thought him capable of schemes such as this, nor masterful enough in magic or lore that he could find and awaken a long-forgotten relic. He was almost impressed, and He attributed it to His divine blood in his veins. If he had not chosen to offend Him, Molag Bal would have risen him to a high position in Coldharbour.

"I assume that you have an idea," He said, "else you would have asked me to crush him."

"I'm no fool – that would mean the end of Vvardenfell. No. I plan to restore the Anguish to Aem'uvus, and hope that that will be enough to unravel some of the damage done."

"_What_?" The Lord laughed long and hard. "The brat tries to destroy your precious Morrowind and you respond with mercy? You seek to restore his beauty and not ignite his fear?"

"I'm not hopeful that it will solve the problem," Sotha Sil admitted, and perhaps that was a mistake, but he said it regardless. "I've received visions that suggests the Anguish's madness runs deeper than surface wounds. Perhaps it will only spur him on further to reclaim his siblings. But it deserves an attempt, at least."

"Be thankful for the Compact, Seht, else I would have come to Nirn and slaughtered him myself." He said. "Why would you, one of the false gods, dare allow a true one to walk among you?"

"Aem'uvus would be a Daedric Lord and his nature will be fickle, but my reasons are my own. Will you help me to restore him?"

The Prince was once more silent for a moment. Sotha Sil feared He would deny him and disappear, or plot His own revenge on His wayward son. But then He nodded, and with a roll of His shoulders He warned:

"I will help you to restore my son, even if he deserves to suffer. But this is not for you, Seht."

"I know," he replied. "Vivec will thank you, in his own way."

With that the God of Schemes vanished, and with Him every single candle was snuffed out as if all of the air had fled the room. Sotha Sil took a deep breath as his holy aura brightened and shed the darkness that had enclosed around him.

"The love of a vengeful God," he murmured to himself.

* * *

To hear this part of the tale, one almost longs for the love that Molag Bal holds for Vivec – if one believes He is capable of love. He put aside His desire for vengeance over His son, obeyed the Compact despite His distaste for it, and Lord Sotha Sil understood. And in a way, so do I. Can the Prince of Domination truly let go of His lover? Do the currents of time eat at His affection as it does mortals? Resolve the hurt of betrayal, or repair a heart that cannot die? Was the return of Aem'uvus, twisted and bitter though he was, enough to stir his sire's affections for his short-lived spouse?

Listen to me, grasping at concepts I hardly understand. The twelfth and fourteenth sermons are so steeped in symbolism, they're difficult to analyse to any real effect. But Sotha Sil _faced_ Molag Bal, and Molag Bal stopped just short of admitting that He agreed for the sake of Vivec. Is it wrong of me to wish that I could find one who would love me similarly, across the expanses of time?

I can feel the Anguish, as though he's seeing through my eyes. He reads the words I write, and I feel his mood turn melancholy. This brief and confusing affection from his father to his mother wounds him, reminds him of a time that was, a time that could have been forever. Perhaps he wishes still to journey back and be Aem'uvus, nestled in the love of his parents. I suppose we're all children, really, scared of the world around of us.

I have never felt more connected to him, in all honesty.


	15. Whereon Our Isles

**Keeper Fomussa:**

Be silent, Telvanni – I do not hear the words of wizards who do not heed the warning of our first Keeper. That you've made it this far means you hold little respect for our tale, and I cannot stomach a Mer who believes themselves impervious to the Anguish's heartbreak.

Have you sat? These old ears and eyes don't help me much. You have? Excellent. Praise the Three all you wish, Telvanni, but neither Vehk nor Seht have been in this chamber, and Ayem refuses to even acknowledge our existence. Onwards with the tale, yes? Fool.

There are bonds that tie all of life together; bonds of loyalty, trust, fear, love, and, perhaps the strongest of them all, blood. Of my family I could not tell you, for they died long ago, and for the Telvanni family is a mere contrivance – a way in which to assert some vague sense of superiority. Yes, that was meant as a dig, wizard. Sharp as a tack.

We cannot imagine, then, precisely what blood meant to the Anguish. What can be told is how he treated his brother, the misshapen Stredricath, and how the Ashlanders came to view his touch as one that could be both of great care and great cruelty.

He fed the Seer scribs and read him tales of Vvardenfell, and on occasion he sat outside his tent with the creature cradled to his chest, humming him soft lullabies that sounded alien to their ears. It was as he gained strength that Stredricath responded to the Anguish's whispers with whispers of his own, and slowly, slowly, the Seer was able to connect with the new land he found himself in.

"I feel him," he said one night as his brother settled him into a small cot. His head was laid on soft down and the Anguish covered his shivering body with cloth, his scarred brow raised in question.

"Our mother?" He clarified, to which Stredricath nodded. "He is connected to these lands, though it is faint on the Ashlanders' sacred sites. Have no fear, brother. He won't come for us until it's too late."

"There are spies in the camp. I sense one's heart, dark and brooding, and another's, uncertain, torn between two realities. The other…She smells of wishes and hot tears."

"Yes, Stredricath – Milara, Saraabi, and Sontel. Vehk sent them here, as well as a host of others to different camps. But I quite enjoy Saraabi's company, and Sontel cares much for the Ashlanders. Milara…I have plans for her, when the time is right."

"Is it not unwise to house the enemy?"

"Vehk knows I search for the Well," he told him, "and Seht, the ever-knowledgeable, perhaps has some plan on how to stop me. But it will be for naught. To house and feed his people is of little consequence. Have faith, brother, and rest. Once we're finished here, then we can topple Molag Bal and be at peace in our rightful home."

The Seer closed his eyes against the flickering firelight that danced across the room. "I long for the day we tear Vivec's head from his shoulders."

His breath soon eased into sleep, and for a while the Anguish watched over him, content to let the hours flit by as he enjoyed his brother's closeness. He was reminded of the children that he had taken in after the death of his miners.

After he had had his fill, the creature turned from Stredricath and crossed his legs. He closed his eyes and slowed his breath, and with careful thought he reached out across Vvardenfell – across the rivers of lava, the towns of ash, the mushrooms that towered high and impenetrable against the sky – and found his mother.

* * *

Vivec had chosen that night to rest himself, after much time spent with the festival planners for the final preparations. He was in his private chambers, surrounded by notes for his next tale, before he swept them aside and settled into bed for a rare, peaceful night of sleep.

It came to him easily. Perhaps he would have questioned it had he not so much on his mind. But when he opened his eyes to a wide and misted plane, and saw in front of him a familiar, cloaked figure, he realised it was not a natural sleep. At least, someone had invaded and warped whatever dreams he might have had.

The figure's head was low, the face within shrouded by shadow. The air smelt of decayed, burnt flesh, and as Vivec faced it he felt a queer sense of loss at the rage that rolled off of it in waves. He knew as soon as he saw him that it was his son. In some distant part of his mind, he even realised that his pose was a dark reflection of the Warrior-Poet's; floating and cross-legged, but instead of Vivec's colourful countenance he had one of sheer gloom, the mist around him stained with an inky blackness that slowly whitened as it reached his mother.

"Aem'uvus," he said in a soft voice. "Why have you come?"

"To see you," he replied, "before the time comes to crush you and your precious Vvardenfell in my righteous war."

"Is that what you call it? Unleashing Daedra on mortals? A righteous war?"

"What did you call our deaths?" The Anguish rebuked, though his voice was not harsh nor loud. "You wrote about the murder of your children as something to be lauded. Your ignorant followers read this tale of blood, and they praise you. But do they not condemn the father who drowns his son? Do they not hear news of a mother, driven by grief, taking the life of her sole remaining child, and weep for that needless death? Why is it, then, that when one who claims divinity slaughters his children, he is seen as a saviour?"

"Aem'uvus, it was never about you or your siblings—"

"And yet it was us who paid the price," he interrupted. The Anguish raised his head to fix his mother with a cold stare, and in his golden eyes Vivec saw the past; a collection of stars that twinkled and darkened at the same time.

The Warrior-Poet smiled softly, sadly, and waved his hand in a circular motion in the air. In the dream-world his magicka went further, for in a moment the Anguish's scarred skin fell away and he appeared as he had been before. Beautiful Aem'uvus stared at him, his nose wrinkled in fury, his lips quirked, but his posture remained rigid and unmoved. He did not even glance down at his hands to see the golden hue returned to them.

"This is how I remember you," he told him. Their voices, so often edged with divine power, sounded even more powerful in the dream-world. "I made a choice, all those centuries ago; a choice with consequences that still pain me. That you had to die, my beautiful Aem'uvus, was a decision I did not make lightly. Have you never imagined, even for one moment, that I care for you just as you once cared for me?"

"It would be just that – imagination."

Vivec's chuckle was soft, warm, though the Anguish had to resist the urge to flinch from it. "You are young, Aem'uvus – my son. There is much more to this life than black and white. I did what was necessary then to protect my people, and I will do it again if you continue the path you've chosen to follow. But it will not mean that I'll enjoy it. I have no desire to see the corpses of my children again."

The creature before him paused, his face still curled in a terrible snarl, before his feet slammed against the floor and he sent out a shockwave that could have disintegrated his mother's dream-form. Instead, Vivec blocked it with a slash of his hand.

"You are a fool!" The Anguish shouted. "You swept my family out of existence and you expect me to show mercy? You expect me to listen when claim to have cared for me? To _still_ care for me? When you threw me in those fires alongside my father? You say that I had to die, Vehk, but I was alive for years after and no end came to your precious Mundus. And still, many will live after I'm through. Chained and bound – but alive."

Vivec sighed and shook his head. "That's no existence, my son."

"It's more than you offered us."

Their eyes met, and the Warrior-Poet saw a fleeting sparkle of pain in those golden eyes that wheezed and died as quickly as it came. His heart ached at the sight. The illusion he had put over him started to burn and wither, as though the very force of his son's anger had set fire to it. Chimer skin crumpled into ash and revealed his true form, his scarred and disfigured visage, and he raised his chin defiantly at his mother.

"This is the end, Vehk," he told him. "Your time is over, and in the ashes of old Vvardenfell will rise a new, better world. Your people will pray – and they will hear _nothing_."

Then he had vanished in a cloud of foul-smelling smoke. Vivec looked at the spot his son had stood, and he wept.

* * *

The Anguish had called Saraabi forth to his tent. It was late, and when he entered he noticed that odd bundle of cloth in a cot nearby, shielding a sleeping, twisted thing from his sight.

He watched as the Daedra before him settled himself on a mat before the fire. His face was inscrutable, and when he gestured for Saraabi to sit down he did so without question. He feared what he had discovered. He had come to enjoy his time with the Anguish, and felt a small amount of disappointment that it would soon draw to a close.

"These are dark times ahead of us," he said, to which his mortal companion straightened before him. "The hour of my victory comes, and then another war begins. But you – you will be here, far from the battle, to help my new people build and nurture my religion. Do you know why I chose you, out of all the Ashlanders here?"

"No, my lord."

"Because there's uncertainty in your heart, Saraabi."

The spy's head recoiled as though he had been slapped. He stared, wide-eyed and terrified, as the Anguish before him let out a low, hoarse laughter.

"My lord, how did—"

"I've known from the moment you stepped into this camp," he told him. "But I allowed you to remain, for you served a purpose. Vivec needed to know where I was, and I needed him to believe he had an eye on me. But that's over now."

"Are you going to kill me?"

He said it with such a steady voice, the Anguish could _almost_ believe he was not terrified. But Saraabi had seen what he had done to the miners, how he had bound them up and put them to work, and how he had killed Aphiese because she had no place in his vision. To not be terrified was a foolish path, indeed.

"No." He replied, and Saraabi's shoulders deflated with relief. "Stredricath has looked into your heart, and he has found a man too worthy to serve as Vivec's spy. In my new world, you will be a leader, a mentor, a spiritual titan. Sontel will have her place with the children, as a mother and guardian. No longer will you hide in the shadows, risking life and limb for a false and undeserving god. But to join me, I will need a show of loyalty. Proof that you have put your past behind you."

The spy's hands trembled as he rested them on his knees. "What would you require, my lord?"

The Anguish smiled, and it was perverse, awful, but underneath those beautiful eyes it almost felt comforting.

"Bring Milara to the Well," he told him. "My sister Ihneroth needs to come home."

* * *

Fomussa reminded me of my grandmother; old, cynical, and quick to offend if she felt you were a fool. I'm quite lucky to have heard this part of the story at all, and if I hadn't stayed silent she might have refused to tell me the name of the next Keeper and where I could find him.

I fear what might become of me once this tale is written out and sent to the Mages Guild. Perhaps I will travel to the temple and seek the aid of Almalexia to exorcise the Anguish from me. He laughs now, and tells me that this is a foolish thing. That she does not care for me as much as she cares for her own power. Perhaps Vivec, then? Or even Sotha Sil, should I be able to contact him.

Preserve me, for he laughs even harder.


	16. Traitor Keep

The tale quickens. With it, my heart races, my mouth dries, and the Anguish's voice switches between maniacal laughter and sobs. Bless me, bless him – take him from me, don't let him leave me, end his existence, don't kill him! Vivec preserve him, Vivec love him, Almalexia forgive him, Almalexia revile him, Sotha Sil…

Sotha Sil.

I have not lost my mind. I fear he has learnt to mimic my mannerisms, or he is done with my joy and turns now to my memories instead. One of my servants asked me if I would take another of my walks around the tower, to 'strengthen my lungs', but I _can't remember_ ever having taken a walk around it before. Has he merely stolen those memories, or has he possessed me at some point and imitated my person? The implications of either—

I must write, I just must. I have preserved most of what Almver said, including his preamble, though I could not tell you why. The Anguish seems to think it means something. Perhaps this is simply his favourite part of the tale. Who knows?

* * *

**Keeper Almver:**

Don't fret, Dirith, for I won't chide you as Fomussa did. She's an old Mer – the oldest of us, actually, though by a few years at most – and the years haven't been kind to her. Be seated, my friend. I knew your name because I keep an eye on the world, while my fellow Keepers prefer to heed the words of the Tribunal and remain hidden. I received letters, you see, that told me to expect you. They're over there, on that table, but I wouldn't try to read them. The language of Oblivion can be quite difficult for normal mortals, as I understand it.

You come to hear my part of the tale, then? Wondrous, wondrous. Then I will thank you to use that bucket beside you if you feel the urge to vomit. Saryendos warned me you had a tendency. What? Of course we keep in touch. Portals, mostly, to hand letters over to one another. We're not much in the habit of company. We've been through so much since—wait, that's not my part of the tale. Don't mind the nix-hound. He can just smell your blood.

Right, so – let's begin, shall we?

When Almalexia arrived at the temple canton, her fury was such that even her Ordinators found it difficult to be in her presence. Her manner was cold, her words calculated, and she demanded as soon as she came through the door to be left alone in her fellow gods' company.

Vivec had dreaded her arrival the moment he had contacted her. He did not wear it on his face, and nor did Sotha Sil. As the canton door closed shut behind her and the locks clicked into place, Ayem ceased her levitation and let her feet land hard on the floor.

"How _dare_ you keep this from me!" She shouted, and her voice reverberated with divine wrath. She pointed at them as though she meant to punish them for their silence. "_Our_ people are in danger, _our_ followers threatened by Vivec's disfigured, malignant son, and I'm kept in the dark? Not only that, but you feel it's time for a festival?! To celebrate our end, perhaps?!"

Vivec met her gaze with a cool stare and remained silent. It was his companion who spoke first, his face devoid of emotion, which perhaps served to infuriate her more.

"The Anguish has found and used a device called the Well of Ash, a relic we've been led to believe is capable of resurrecting dead Daedric entities," he stated. "We've all but concluded he chose to resurrect his brother, Stredricath the Seer. To what end we have no idea, but this does not bode well for Vvardenfell."

"Doesn't bode well?! Are you a god, Seht, or a fool? Of course it doesn't bode well! Why have you not sent an army to eliminate him?"

"Because we have no idea the limit of his power," Vivec replied, "and our spies report that he's able to resurrect and bind souls without the use of the Well. I refuse to send our soldiers only to have their spirits used against us."

"Once we kill him, we can unbind the souls and send them on," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "End this farce, send for your soldiers, and march on wherever the worm hides. He must die _now_, before he can do anymore harm."

Almalexia turned then as if to leave, but was stopped by Sotha Sil's sudden, "Wait." She looked over her shoulder, her eyes narrowed and her visage one of sheer vehemence. The Clockwork God steeled himself against it.

"There is another way," he told her. His words caught both of his companion's attention, though he noted in the back of his mind that Vivec's seemed more desperate, more pleading, as if some event he had not disclosed had jarred him from the idea of outrightly eliminating his son.

"There is no other way," Almalexia replied, and she seemed disgusted that he would even entertain the thought.

"I've made some…inquiries, and thought on the Well's restorative properties. If we can manipulate its energies, we could be able to restore the Anguish to his previous form – to Aem'uvus. We could save him from his madness rather than kill him for it."

"Save him? Save a Daedra who plans to kill us? To kill our people? Have you lost your mind, Seht?" She turned to them again. When she took a step toward him, the Clockwork God had to resist the urge to put up a shield against her. "I will hear no more of this. He dies, do you understand me? Vehk's son or no, he deserves little else than to rot on the stones."

"Ayem," Vivec told her, his voice with a slight edge to it, "do remember that he _is_ my son. You speak with such callousness, as though you plan to slaughter a nix-hound."

"It's irrelevant to me. Where did you even make these inquiries, Seht? No mortal man has ever spoken of a 'Well of Ash'."

He knew that question would come, but Sotha Sil almost refused to answer it. She would not accept his reasons, even if he told them both the true extent of his interest in the Anguish; but he would not lie to her. He had no desire to hasten his own demise.

"I've been in contact with Molag Bal," he said. For one moment he thought she would attack him right then, but instead the Mother of Morrowind spluttered:

"What?!"

"Aem'uvus' sire," he clarified, to which he received a sharp glare. "It's in all of our best interests to stop the Anguish. I hold no illusions that He cares if Vvardenfell is sacked, but Bal will not suffer a challenge for His throne. He agreed to help me find a way in which to restore His son. I received a messenger banekin a few days ago to inform me He had."

"And He theorises the Well is involved?" Vivec asked.

"No – that was my thought. Bal merely expounded upon it. He and I have agreed; if we can somehow submerge the Anguish in the Well, He will use His own magic to manipulate the processes it utilises. In theory, it will heal his scars just as it creates bodies for dead souls."

Vivec turned his face so that his companions could not see the single tear rolling down his cheek. He and Sotha Sil had moved back and forth from the idea of restoring his son, but to hear that there was a chance – that his short-lived spouse had discovered a way in which Aem'uvus could be returned to him – was at once uplifting and frightening.

Almalexia, of course, disagreed. "I won't allow this. A Daedric Prince involved in our affairs? Interacting with Nirn? Not only does it break your own compact, Seht, but it opens up a path for Bal to believe He can manipulate us."

"A fact I've taken into account," he replied, "and I still believe it to be worth the risk. Aem'uvus—"

"Is _dead_," she interrupted. "Whatever he was before, he died the moment Vivec pushed him into those fires. This creature isn't his son, nor will it ever be again."

Ayem noticed then that their companion had turned from them. He stood facing his throne, his arms folded and his head low, and she felt for one moment a little prick of guilt. The Mother of Morrowind stepped forward to him, but she did not reach out to touch him. Indeed, she could not see the sorrow in his face nor the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. It had been centuries since she had seen him show more than a jovial smile.

"I'm sorry, Vehk. It's difficult to hear, but no less true. Don't allow your emotions to cloud your judgement. You killed him once to save your people. You must do it again, for the good of all of Vvardenfell. For the good of the Tribunal."

He did not respond, merely waited until she suspended herself once more in the air and departed their company. Sotha Sil looked at Vivec and made as though to speak, but he was stopped by a shake of the Warrior-Poet's head.

"No, my friend," he told him. "No more. Perhaps Ayem's right. Perhaps Aem'uvus is beyond redemption. A master must put down his sick dog so it won't suffer. I murdered him once, yes?"

Vivec shook his head and pressed his fist against the bridge of his nose.

"I murdered him once."

* * *

Milara followed him through the tunnels at his behest.

He had told her the Anguish was tending to his new creature; that now was the perfect time for her to see the devastation the Well was capable of. The spirits did not observe their march. Their spectral visages reinforced support beams, smoothed out the rough edges, and she shivered when she saw them. She had dined with a few of them before. If she did not view the Ashlanders as little more than savages, perhaps Milara would even feel some pity for their torment rather than mere revulsion.

When first she saw the Well, she had no idea how to react. Its enormous domed ceiling and multitude of vats reminded her of some grotesque factory of sorts, and the spy crossed her arms as though to shield herself from the sight. The energy that rolled off of it came in waves. Milara almost felt the desire to flee.

"This is sickening," she said. "Saraabi, can you imagine what that thing could do with this? What could happen if it managed to summon all of its siblings?"

Her companion nodded numbly beside her. "I can. It would be chaos."

The pair stood in silence for a while. She looked at the Well for as long as she could manage, and then with a shake of her head she suggested they should leave before they were found.

"Wait," he told her, clutching her arm as she turned. "You need to see one of the vats. I'm worried it's the key to the entire structure, and I need a second opinion."

"From me? Do I look like a scholar of the arcane, Saraabi?"

"Just _come_," he urged. He pulled at her arm, and suddenly Milara felt as though something was very wrong. Saraabi's eyes appeared fierce and cold and his fingers dug into her skin. The spy struggled against him.

"Let me go!" She demanded. "I've seen enough! Why won't you let me—"

There was a cold, cruel laugh, and Milara's words were cut off with a sharp cry of pain. Saraabi released her as fiery whips launched out of the ground and lifted her into the air. She was carried to a place beside the largest vat, where the whips tightened and became heavy iron chains.

He felt a clap on his shoulder. The man turned to see the Anguish behind him, clutching that bundle of cloth wherein his malformed brother laid in one hand while he held his staff in the other.

"Very well done, Saraabi," he told him as he ambled down towards the woman. "Very well done, indeed."

"_This_ one," Stredricath breathed in his arms. "She's dark-hearted, brother. Oh, so dark-hearted – I could almost eat it."

Saraabi followed them, though if he tried to recall that moment he would not remember taking steps nor feeling the heat that surrounded them. He joined the Anguish's side, looking down at Milara as she fought against her restraints.

"Saraabi, you traitorous bastard!" She was shouting. "Once Lord Vivec hears about this, he'll have your head! He'll execute you in front of all of Vvardenfell! Your house will suffer! Your family will suffer!"

"Doesn't she _fight_?" Stredricath said. "She's perfect for Ihneroth."

"Hush, brother," the Anguish murmured, and then he fixed Saraabi with a pleased smile. He reached into his cloak, but the spy did not flinch or feel the need to protect himself. No, he had felt no safer, in fact; he was almost happy to have satisfied him.

The creature produced a small dagger from the recesses of his cloak. He offered it to Saraabi, who took it without question. But he did not immediately use it. Instead, he stared down at the weapon in his hand, and for a moment his muscles refused to move. When he noticed his hesitation, the Anguish started to circle him and murmured in his ears. His voice was soft and comforting.

"She was always jealous of you," he whispered.

"Yes, yes – jealous of you. She wanted your place." Stredricath said.

"But you earnt that place, didn't you?" The Anguish's staff brushed his shoulder, reminding him oddly of his mother's touch. "That was your achievement, and Milara hated you for it. She wanted you to fail. She even engineered it. Stredricath searched in her heart, and he knew; he saw that she was planning to tell your lord that you had been compromised. That she should take your place and you should be punished. You, a devoted, _exceptional_ servant to Vivec, and he would toss you aside for this little upstart. He would throw you out the moment you were no longer useful – all for _her._"

"Not fair, is it?"

"Not fair at all, brother." He agreed. The Anguish came to a slow halt and leant into Saraabi's ear. "So, go ahead. Punish her for her insolence. Show her what true devotion is. Demonstrate to me that you can cut down the enemy, and you will have all of the recognition you deserve."

His eyes hardened and his grip on the dagger's handle tightened. Saraabi stepped forward, and Milara looked up at him with narrowed, sneering eyes.

"You've always wanted my place," he said. She laughed.

"You _never_ deserved it," she told him. "The moment we stepped into this camp, you were this thing's little lapdog. You were compromised as soon as he separated you from us. You're weak, Saraabi."

"I was Vivec's best spy!" He shouted, and his voice thundered around the room. He pointed the blade at her, but Milara did not quiver from it. "I did everything he asked! I went everywhere he told me to! I earnt that place, and you wanted to take it from me! But not anymore! This ends now!"

She laughed again, raising her head towards the ceiling. "You were never Vivec's best. If you were, you wouldn't have turned so easily. Do your worst. I have faith that I'll be rewarded for my loyalty."

He would not recall what happened next. Indeed, his movements were so furious and flurried even the Anguish did not see them clearly. One moment Milara was alive, a picture of faith and virtue, and the next she was bloodied and dead, her hair streaked red and her wrists limp in her chains. I cannot tell you if what he was told was true – if Milara was dark-hearted – but it hardly mattered, in the end. Saraabi would have killed her regardless, for the Anguish had asked him to.

What happened next? Why, isn't it obvious? The dead spy was pushed into the vat, where she was lost forever to heat of the lava. Quite a terrible end, as ends go. What happened after that, well, you'll have to see the next Keeper, won't you? Here, let me find a pen and paper – oh, you have a memory stone? Give it here, then. Quite light, isn't it? Is it durable? It'll have to be; I wouldn't want you to scale an entire mountain and have the memory stone break!

* * *

Almver gave me the next location, and I was able to leave him and his bloodthirsty nix-hound with my limbs intact, at least. But to hear of Saraabi's corruption was…difficult, at the time. Now it seems to make sense. He _had_ earnt it. It was his by right. We Telvanni have been known to 'arrange' openings from time to time, but we earn those, too.

Oh Seht, he's reworking my mind, isn't he?


	17. Deyduhn Des

**Keeper Llaaryn:**

He stole into the night, the shadow of a once-proud Tribunal spy, now a true agent of the Daedra.

He had his first assignment; his second, if Milara's sacrifice counted. Personal taste, for I do not count it, and I am rather squeamish of the details my dear friend Almver seems to love. But, regardless, Saraabi did what he had been told to do. He led an army of Ashlanders and spectral slaves, who held up swords and groaned haunting noises against the occasional rumbles of Red Mountain, to a town no one could recall; a town whose name was Deyduhn Des, and its people of little consequence. The first building he saw of it was a restaurant called 'The Netch Calf', the windows lit with a few candles and fogged with hot breath and laughter. The catch-of-the-day was seared Slaughterfish. Saraabi wondered if that was a sign.

In the comfort of the camp, clustered around a small table with a tattered map set before them – the twisted inverse of the Tribunal – were the Anguish, his malformed Seer laid upright in a basket, and the fire-face-haired Ihneroth, her eyes the colour of malevolence and her smile wicked, yet serene. The Anguish had closed his eyes to them, and from his eyelids a mesmerising blue mist steamed.

"He's found it," he murmured to his siblings. "I can sense such life."

"Those are fine souls, brother. The town is an untouched jewel."

Saraabi positioned his army around the streets, and prayed in his heart that none would groan at an inopportune moment and reveal themselves. The night was dark, but the moonlight lit the roads silver and allowed him some precious sight. Houses built atop shops, Mer drunk and laid out cold on the stones, the homeless, wide-eyed and mad, even a few nobles too wrapped up in each other to pay attention; Deyduhn Des was a typical town. It reminded him of his father's ancestral home in Balmora, and a single tear appeared to roll down his cheek when he thought of how his family would revile him. Could you imagine, dear Dirith, that Saraabi did not just sacrifice his comfort when he chose to defect, but his memories with his most beloved? He was once so proud to be counted among Vivec's faithful servants. Remember the cost of his decision when the Anguish whispers in your ear.

"Brother," said Ihneroth to the Seer. "How can you be sure that Deyduhn Des will provide us what we need?"

"I can sense hearts and minds laid quiet in peace, fulfilment in the simple; calloused hands means soft clothes and swaddled, fed babes. These souls have not known the true taste of fear. Their purity will forge our siblings anew, and their terror will spur them to destroy."

Ihneroth let out a low, steady exhale of excitement.

"Aem'uvus has done well," she murmured, for she did not know if the creature could hear her. "He will look fine on our father's throne."

The Anguish's smile curved soft and imperceptible as the blue mist rolled down his face.

In the town, as 'The Netch Calf' and taverns started to close and lovers filed out into the streets, arm-in-arm, laughing, stumbling over each other's feet, Saraabi felt the slightest tug of regret. But he had been a spy, and he knew that for a new, better world to flower forth, death was unavoidable.

He rose up from the dark corner he had been hiding, unnoticed by Deyduhn Des, and called out, "To arms! For the Anguish! For Vvardenfell!"

The streets erupted into a battle of real and phantom warriors, and for the people who had planned to lie in bed beside their beloved, to be one with them, to ponder on a calm and beautiful future at their side, the dream was snuffed out with the clap of iron and the blood of the unwilling.

In Deyduhn Des – a village with no real significance, with people too pure to wander unnoticed – came a tragedy too difficult to remember. Lovers parted, red-slicked streets too wet to walk upon, lights blown out with the swings of swords; screams unlike that which have been heard before. Not even ruins remain, and yet if one were to find the spot on which 'The Netch Calf' stood, the winds seem to carry the sound of laughter that slowly falls to tears.

* * *

Almalexia came to the temple canton the moment she had heard the news. She found that her fellow divines had already gathered, and Vivec, once the happiest of them, was despondent and wracked with grief. He did not levitate, but stood at the side of the Clockwork God, his fist pressed against his chin and his head bent low, eyes closed against what his companion was murmuring to him.

"It's true," said Sotha Sil before she could open her mouth. "Deyduhn Des was wiped out overnight."

"Survivors?" She asked. Her reply was a shake of the head. "The entire town just vanished?"

"Not the entire town," he replied, for Vivec refused to speak of it; and if he did he feared he would weep for the souls lost to his son's mad machinations. "There were many dead left behind. I'm told not one of the corpses are Ashlander."

The Mother of Morrowind stumbled backwards until her legs hit a bench, where she sat, stunned and open-mouthed, her hands clutched on the upholstery to anchor herself. It was as if someone had stabbed her in the heart.

"How—How could this happen?" She stammered, her eyes shifting over the floor as though it could tell her the answer. "How could we lose an entire village – just in smoke? Were there not guards? House soldiers?"

"There were, but no trouble ever befell the streets of Deyduhn. I wouldn't be surprised if the guards had long ago abandoned their patrols and took to treating it as a relaxation assignment. It would be simple to launch a surprise attack on them."

Almalexia closed her eyes in an attempt to centre herself. Her emotions flooded over her in such a powerful wave, she thought for a moment that she had become mortal again. There was unbearable sadness, desperation, confusion, all coming down in a tsunami that disorientated her in the familiar temple walls. Then rage.

Blinding, fiery rage.

She rose her head towards Vivec. He could feel her eyes bore into him, but he did not meet her gaze. She lifted herself slowly to her feet, and Sotha Sil saw the tension in her shoulders, how her muscles were poised as if she meant to run and attack the Warrior-Poet. He stepped ever-so-slightly closer to his friend, but Almalexia was so caught up in him that he doubted she noticed.

"You." She said, and her voice was like ice, cold and barren and filled with latent fury. "This is your fault. Our people are dead because _you_ refused to act. Because you were too weak to put down that twisted creature you call a son."

Vivec lowered his head until his chin almost touched the edge of his collarbone. He did not respond, for there was no response. The Anguish had played a move that could not be forgiven. Sotha Sil put his hand on his shoulder, but his touch could bring him no comfort.

"And _you_," Almalexia said to the Clockwork God. "Have you forgotten what we are to the Dunmer? Beacons of hope, bastions of righteousness, their final line of defence against all that brings them harm? Yet you refuse to use your common sense and instead indulge Vivec's fantasies. You consort with a Daedric Prince, one who wishes nothing but enslavement on our people, to restore the Anguish rather than crush him. To redeem him, as if such an abomination could be worthy of redemption."

She clapped the back of her right hand into the palm of her left. Her eyes were such that neither god defended themselves, and Sotha Sil noted idly that it would be a waste of time regardless.

"But it ends now. This game you've played with our people's lives is over. I'm taking control of the Buoyant Armigers and bolstering their numbers with my Ordinators, and then _we_ march on that camp and crush the Anguish. All of us. The people of Vvardenfell need to see their gods united once this news reaches the streets."

Vivec's nod was short, and yet it embodied a weary and despairing man. He did not look at Almalexia, but his arms fell to his sides and he no longer stood with his fist pressed to his chin. The Mother of Morrowind took this as his odd show of acceptance.

"We must attempt to warn our spies," Sotha Sil pointed out. "If we attack without notice, Saraabi, Sontel, and Milara will be killed in the crossfire."

"No," she said, pointing at him. "None of them have sent a report in over a month, and by this point we can't risk our messages being intercepted and tipping our hand to the Anguish. We have to assume they were discovered and killed."

"And if they're alive, our own soldiers will slaughter them."

"They accepted those risks the moment they pledged themselves to the service of the Tribunal," she said. Almalexia lifted herself once more into the air, that ball of light cupped between her hands, and looked at them each in turn. Once she had established her dominance over the situation – or, at least, she felt she had – the Mother of Morrowind nodded towards the door.

Vivec sighed and allowed his shoulders to further deflate. "Ayem speaks the truth. We can no longer hide the threat from our people. Come, Sil. It's time that we faced this."

After a moment's hesitation, the Clockwork God acquiesced.

* * *

Sontel did not understand why the Anguish had called her to the Well, but she had noticed Milara's absence and the cool, steel expression in Saraabi's eyes. She realised, as she walked down that tunnel, that she might face a choice at the end of it. That she might not see sunlight again. Despite the fear that gnawed at her stomach, she sent silent prayers for the murdered and captured residents of Deyduhn Des, some of whom were chained up at the neck in the very tunnel she walked. Their desperate eyes watched her pass. Their fear sent a palpable beat through the stone.

Once she had stepped through the yawning maw that led to the Chambers, she saw the Anguish stood beside the largest vat in the centre. On his left stood Ihneroth, the enormous Daedra whose mouth never moved, holding Stredricath in the uppermost pair of her arms; and on his right, his head tilted high and proud, was Saraabi.

_Oh, Saraabi_, she thought as she crossed the final stretch to stand before them. _What has this place done to you?_

Sontel settled on her knees on the patch of ground in front of the Anguish. Her heart hurt when she saw the orphaned Ashlander children huddled up at the edge of the room, their eyes so innocent and unafraid. The creature's hands were folded, his staff nowhere in sight, and he smiled at her. For a brief flash, the spy saw something beautiful. Something forgotten. But it disappeared in the next moment, and he spoke too soon for her to ponder on it.

"My dearest Sontel," he said, to which her eyes widened and she leaned back. The Anguish laughed. "Have no fear – I've known your name since first you came here. But I bear you no ill will. Vivec's words are insidious, and seep into the bones of even the best people. Corruption. Beauty and kindness does not save you from that."

The spy lowered her head, not to bow, but to shield herself from his piercing eyes. "I have answered your summons, Anguish. Why am I here?"

He waved his arm towards his siblings.

"Stredricath," he said. "Will you tell me what you see?"

Those bloodshot eyes fell on her, and Sontel's skin crawled as she felt him stare into her very soul.

"I see a mother," Stredricath said. "I smell wishes and water, and—and I see a bird without wings. It hops over crunched leaves in a forest on fire. Time catches up with it."

"A mother…" The Anguish smiled and looked at her. Sontel dared to meet his gaze. "That's what you are at heart, isn't it, dear Sontel? I've watched you tend to the Ashlanders, to my faithful, even though you reviled their beliefs. Even though you came here to stop me. Why did you do that?"

"They're still Dunmer. Ashlander or not, no one deserves to suffer as they have. They needed me."

"An admirable answer. Not the whole truth, of course, but close enough." He reached out, and that terrible staff materialised amongst the hot air and floating embers. "You loved them, in your own way. Poor widowed Mahamne, who buried herself in lava, and the children—" He gestured to the small gathering still crowded at the edge of the Chamber, "—my children, who you read to, who you cared for. Oh, Sontel; this is the life for you, isn't it? To guide and protect our weak and vulnerable."

She took an audible gulp. "I am loyal to the Tribunal."

"They can't offer you what I can. Listen well. Renounce your love for Vivec – renounce him, my cruel, murderous mother, who slaughtered his children – and I will provide you with the life you so desire. Children, the elderly, the infirm, the grief-stricken, the dying; I will entrust them all to you, for you to heal, for you to love. You will never be alone again. You never need make another life-or-death decision. I will gift you this land on which to raise a new society, one that cares for their lowest forms of life. You will be my agent of peace, Sontel, and I will offer you all you need to live a happy, long life."

Another gulp. "I am loyal to the Tribunal."

The Anguish's face hardened and he stepped closer.

"Think well on your answer," he warned her. "The consequences of rejection are…not as favourable."

Saraabi watched her intently as she considered her response. He saw her hands tremble, her bottom lip quiver as the Anguish waited for her response. Sontel looked upon him, and his heart fractured.

"I'm sorry, my friend," she whispered. His lips thinned and tears sprung up in his eyes.

"I am, too."

Then Sontel looked at the Anguish, and she replied, "I am loyal to the Tribunal."

Though he expected anger, Saraabi watched as the Anguish leaned down to her. He saw him cup her chin, saw her resist the urge to flinch, and how the creature's head tilted as he murmured softly:

"Then die a loyal dog."

His grip tightened around her chin. The Anguish lifted her from where she knelt and dangled her over the vat, and her hands clutched around his scarred wrist as she stared up at the ceiling. She wished, in the few seconds that passed, that she had enjoyed the sunlight against her face that morning, and listened more closely to the birdsong that had woken her.

He dropped her. If she had screamed it was underneath the lava, and the last thing Saraabi saw of her was the determination on her face, the last act of loyalty she would ever perform for the Tribunal.

The Anguish started a profane spell, his hands waving in the air and the language of Oblivion on his lips. He spoke in that low, terrible voice, and the ceiling above rumbled with energy as lava came up in a cyclone from the vat.

When he engulfed himself in it, his scream and Saraabi's were joined as one. He howled in pain and the spy lunged forward, but he was caught by one of Ihneroth's hands. He fought against her as the cyclone roared around the Anguish.

But once it had dispersed and receded back into the vat, Saraabi found himself falling to his knees. In front of him, gleaming golden in the firelight, was the most beautiful man he had ever seen; a Chimer from the legends of old, whose face seemed carved from divine stone, his eyes the only part that he recognised as the Anguish.

"Come." He instructed. "I must address the Ashlanders."

* * *

"Hear me!" The Anguish shouted to a stunned audience, stood on the platform above with his brother and sister at his side. Saraabi watched from the front of the crowd, and even he was mesmerised. "Our war looms in sight! The end of the Tribunal is nigh! I have shed my Betrayed-Skin, and as I have been transformed, so too will Vvardenfell!"

The camp was racked with cheers and fanatical cries. Saraabi thought the entire Mountain would tumble under their might.

"I am the Daedric Prince of Fear and Regret! I am the Anguish!"

The creature held up his staff to the darkened night sky.

"_I am Aem'uvus_!"

* * *

Do you see the life I offered them? I offered Sontel a world in which she would thrive, promised her a peaceful, happy existence – and still, she spurned me. She aligned herself with a murderer, because that is what she had known. Even Dirith; I send him on walks and take his fickle emotions, and yet he still considers me an invader. Does a monster care so for his charges?

I deserved that throne in Coldharbour. I deserved vengeance against my mother. I deserved—

I just blinked, and instead of the comfort of my study I find myself suddenly at the edge of the sea, a scrap of parchment in my hand with words I don't remember writing.

It's so…It's so peaceful here. I think I might sit down for a while and hear what the Anguish might say about it. He seems to like the water. Perhaps that's all that matters, in the end.


	18. March

The Anguish told me a tale himself, today; one I can't repeat, but it was…comforting. He urged me to eat and rest, and this time he left my dreams alone. I awoke feeling rejuvenated, as if I haven't just spent months fighting off a mental assault.

In my heart, I know it's a trick. I know he plans something, even if what it is remains a mystery. He did offer Sontel a life of peace, but he also cut down Milara so that his sister could return. He elevated Saraabi and entrusted him with the task of leading his faithful once he ascended his place in Coldharbour, but he also turned him from his path, turned him from the love of his gods and family. The Anguish's decisions are a mystery to me, at once a promise and a sacrifice. For some reason he tells me that the Tribunal will abandon me now, like a sick chick in a nest full of healthy hatchlings.

There are a few options for me still, even if all of them are rather undesirable. When I think of them, I feel a slight ripple of panic that's not my own.

Let me write this, and then I will pray.

* * *

**Keeper Wyndor:**

Vivec would not forget the faces of his people after he had told them of the threat installed so close to home. He saw their terror, their despair, their defeat – their anguish. Beside his fellow divines he felt at least a little comforted, but once the doors of his private chambers closed and he was left alone with his thoughts, the sense of failure crept in.

In a rare moment of peace – one he feared beckoned the storm – the Warrior-Poet thought on the war ahead. He imagined what would become of Vvardenfell if, somehow, he and the rest of the Tribunal failed. He wondered how many bodies would line the streets, and how many chains would be anchored around his people's necks. He realised if his son was capable of achieving dominance on Nirn, there was no reason he could not do the same in Coldharbour; and then a mad child would sit on a throne of divine power. It sent a shiver down his spine to imagine him in control of a significant realm of Oblivion.

Vivec was not alone with those thoughts, though, much as it felt like he was in those moments. The soft colours of a portal soon beamed in the corner of his room, and out of the lurid blues and yellows stepped Sotha Sil, his face cold and inscrutable.

"More ill tidings?" The Warrior-Poet sighed. "I'll come to miss the quiet of slow days."

"Vehk," he said, and his voice reminded him of winter nights without fire. "I received another messenger from Coldharbour."

Vivec's brow furrowed and his hands rested on his hips. He thought to make a quip to dispel the tension in the air, but he could tell by his brother's face that it would be a poor decision.

"How does Molag Bal presume to make our situation worse?" He asked.

"A dangerous sentence to say aloud," Sotha Sil mused before he answered. "It's best that I show you. Come; and steel yourself, brother. This is a…troubling development."

* * *

He called them 'the Inverse', and when Vivec saw them in the projection he felt his stomach drop and his heart leap to his throat. Daedra crawled out in pairs, then in dozens, as more and more of the Deyduhn residents were fed to the Well; and his son, his restored, beautiful, insane son watched over them, a smile on his face and a constant need for more on his lips.

"No…" The word slipped out before he could stop it. Sotha Sil put his hand on his shoulder as images of his children continued to play, spelling out a terrible and unending doom.

"Ayem has set the wheels in motion," he said. "Our soldiers start their march. The Anguish has restored himself – at least, partially – and will meet us in force. We have run out of time."

The Warrior-Poet turned from the projection. For a brief moment he thought of Almalexia, who organised their forces with a vengefulness that concerned him. He had an inclination that the war would be brief and devastating; and he could not tell which side would win.

"He leads the Ashlanders against us," said Vivec. "He destroyed Deyduhn Des, healed himself, and marches ever forward with his plot. Ayem was right. We have hesitated and schemed, and have only succeeded in putting our people at risk. The truth can no longer be denied, Sil. The Anguish – Aem'uvus – needs to be killed. Permanently." He took a deep breath. "It's my fault that our enemy is powerful enough to face down our armies. I should be the one to challenge him."

"Vehk—"

"He is my son, Sil. I let my regret cloud my judgement," he interrupted. "Let me put this right. Once Ayem has cleaved a path through my children, we will order our forces to take the camp. The Tribunal will face the Anguish in the Well, and he will die there. No more sentimentality. No more discussion. No more back-and-forth. Our hand has been dealt, and we cannot afford to fold."

Sotha Sil's mouth twitched and he hesitated, but soon the Clockwork God nodded and straightened himself. Neutrality descended once more over his face, and in an odd way it was comforting.

"Very well," he said. "Then we should prepare. If Ayem is with our armies, we should meet with our tacticians and make up what few plans we can. I've a feeling that the Anguish will not make this easy."

* * *

There are but a mere few chapters left, and after I have done my part and sent this to the Guild I have no idea what my next steps will be. It's clear to me that the Anguish will not leave through any conventional means, and if I cannot contact the gods for help then banishment sounds all but impossible.

I will take another walk along the waterfront. Perhaps, after this, a peaceful end beside the water is all I can hope for.


	19. Blood on the Ash

**Keeper Almllin:**

Here you are, Telvanni – as it has been written. Be settled, drink well, and bid your heart not to tremble, for mine is the beginning of the end.

The ashlands rumbled under the weight of steel boots and heavy armour. Almalexia's feet hovered inches above the floor, her divine form coated in a golden light, as she led her armies past Seyda Neen and onwards to their deaths. Even Red Mountain seemed to warn her, for it spewed black, billowing clouds that darkened the sky and all but blotted out the sun. But once a goddess is certain of her path, not even the natural order can dissuade her.

Above the army floated Vivec, who had insisted on his presence as an assurance to his people that he would no longer allow fanciful sentiment to impair his judgement. His face was hard, his features set, and to his Buoyant Armigers he appeared, at least for a moment, a different person entirely. The war was in sight. Are you prepared, Telvanni?

For hours, it seemed as though no enemy would face them. In some distant part of his heart, Vivec hoped that was the truth. That his son had somehow foreseen their armies and absconded into some obscure pocket of Oblivion. But of course, the Anguish would not retreat before blood had been spilt. The ashlands would be soaked red before he even considered such a notion.

Almalexia crested the hill, and there, as Vivec soon saw, was their foe.

The sight of them made his heart freeze. An entire battalion, at least a thousand strong, stood on another hill opposite their own, full of misshapen forms and enormous jaws, mottled skin and evil, wicked eyes. At the head was Ihneroth, who stood as an eerie reflection to Almalexia, and at her side was Saraabi, a face of steel that belied the anxiety of facing his former gods. Behind them, Red Mountain loomed as an unwilling observer.

The army came to a halt. Vivec paused above them, and for a moment, all was silent, the ashlands filled only with the sound of wind and the click of mandibles. Ihneroth's smile was twisted, and her fire-face-hair screamed ghostly cries. The mortals shivered at their sight, but held fast. The clatter of swords could be heard as they prepared themselves for a glorious end.

"Children of Vivec!" Called Almalexia over the hush. "Abominations of Coldharbour! How dare you threaten our people, our land, our divinity!"

"False gods!" Replied Ihneroth, and the powerful terror her voice inspired made the mortals' sword-arms falter. "Liars and defamers! Bedfellows of the Prince of Domination, and executioners of the innocent!"

The Daedric forces rose up to her voice. Their cries were awful, burdened with pain, with evil, and their bodies twisted in ways that did not quite make sense to the mind.

"My siblings slaughtered! My father, cast down! To whet the appetite of a bloodthirsty lord – a _stolen _divinity. But today, we rise! Our brother has revived us! He names us 'the Inverse'! For him we fight to end a false Tribunal, and ascend him to his rightful place on the throne of Coldharbour!"

Ihneroth reached out and dropped an odd stone on the ground. It glowed with a ferocity that seemed personal for a moment, and then sprang an image of fair Aem'uvus, cold and vicious in his beauty.

"Our lord has a message," she declared. "Heed him, mortal-Mer, and your ends shall be swift."

Vivec steeled himself as his son came closer to the lip of the hill he stood upon. His eyes looked out, and even the Buoyant Armigers were mesmerised, lowering their weapons just to stare at his ethereal face.

"Children of the Chimer – this is a day that shall be forever etched in Vvardenfell's memory," he declared, and his voice was soft and light, like a fresh spring under a warm sun. "The ash will whisper of it when the nights grow cold; the stones will tell it in scorch marks and scratches. There is no place for the Tribunal's faithful in our new world, but your deaths can mean more. Embrace the endless farewell, join your brethren of Deyduhn Des, and be comforted in the knowledge that your end enables a rich and prosperous future for the Dunmeri people. Lay down your weapons and I promise you; you shall feel no pain."

For a moment, all was still. Perhaps in more than one mind, the thought of a painless end was tempting, but you know how it is with mortals in this tale. Their troubles did not mean much. The Anguish stood upon that lip, on the rim of the future, and waited.

Then there was a clatter, and bows, swords, mauls and all returned to their positions, defiant and prepared. The creature's face twisted, and he laughed.

"Very well," he said as he held up his staff. His entire visage was suddenly draped in a golden light, one that caused his foes to shield their eyes and turn their heads, and his siblings stirred into a frenzy. "Then you shall all bear witness to a true divine."

Vivec's stone-cold expression softened, but he turned it instead to Saraabi, who stood tall at Ihneroth's side. He lamented that there was no regret on his face. Unease, yes, perhaps even sadness, but no regret.

"Saraabi," he said, to which the spy's chin rose and his frown stiffened. "You have been my eyes and ears for decades. A faithful servant to our cause. An excellent guardian to your family. Why, my friend? Why would you turn your back on us? On Vvardenfell?"

The mortal looked to Ihneroth, who gestured her permission with one of her arms. He came to stand beside the Anguish's golden light, and Vivec imagined he saw him revel in it for a moment, as if embracing true love. Once his eyes had opened, he seemed more convinced of his misguided, rebellious beliefs.

"I served you, clambered and clawed through the ranks, murdered and, yes, even would have died for you," he told him, "and the thanks I receive? Sent on a suicide mission with a woman who planned to usurp me. That's all I amounted to. A pawn in a cosmic game, replaceable, expendable – worthless. Once my usefulness ran out, so too would the favour of the gods. But not with the Anguish. He will assume his throne, and I will be rewarded. I will lead and nurture his faithful. I will be a titan; no more lingering in the shadows, lapping up morsels of recognition. I have proven myself with Milara's blood, and he wants for no more."

The Warrior-Poet sadly shook his head. "Then it is the want of power that drives you to madness. A folly too often indulged."

"Enough of this!" Declared the Anguish. He pointed his staff forward, and Saraabi dutifully returned to his place. "Brothers and sisters, do you see your enemy?!"

A cry that was almost unanimous replied. Once more the crowd behind him became frenzied, jaws opening and arms flexing.

"Do you see your murderer?!"

Another round of screams, infiltrating the mortals' minds.

"Then descend, my siblings, and revel in your vengeance! No more darkness! No more death!"

Just as he said it, Ul'acius leapt in front of Aem'uvus and let out a horrifying, blood-curdling scream. The image vanished, and then a lava-like wave of black and red hides started to pour down the Daedra hill, their shrieks erupting and filling the air. It was met with a sea of shining blue and gold, and once more, the ashlands knew the taste of blood.

* * *

I wish I had listened to Saryendos; that was my favourite pair of shoes. Come, come, no need to be embarrassed. I remember when I saw my first murder—what was that? No, not you. The voice in my head. Oh, you'll know it soon enough. No need to trouble yourself. Shall we continue? I fear you're about to start asking me questions, and questions are best left to the end, which means they're not my problem.

Sotha Sil had prepared his city for a potential assault. His Clockwork Apostles were aware of the threat, and his factotums had been set for an onslaught. Once he had returned to Vivec City, he had organised the pitiful few of their remaining forces into at least an attempt at defence. He realised the probability of them resisting an army of Daedra was low in the first place, and that their hopes relied almost entirely on control of the battlefield. Perhaps, he thought at one point, his calculations had been incorrect, and it was not by jealousy and greed that he would meet his end.

He was in the main throne room, having just delivered orders to the remaining captain of the guard, when a sudden voice caught his attention. It was that familiar, Coldharbour-imbued tone that alerted him, and so when he turned to see an ethereal projection of Molag Bal, he was not surprised.

"Bal," he said, folding his hands. "I thought you preferred messengers."

"With my whelp restored, he moves one step closer to Coldharbour," said the visage. "He forgets his place, and Vivec has proven useless in culling him. I offer you a deal."

"A deal?"

"Go and join your fellow pretenders. Find my son and this 'Well'. I will end Aem'uvus, and won't even crush this insect-realm; as long as his soul comes to me."

Sotha Sil felt his heart stutter. "You want Aem'uvus' soul?"

"Brats cannot be coddled. Threats, even meagre ones, are dealt with. Free me of the Compact and I take him from Vvardenfell. His pain will serve as a warning to others; I do not forget, and I do not forgive."

The Clockwork God hesitated as a wave of thoughts washed over him. If he accepted, he would doom Aem'uvus to eternal damnation, enslavement and torture that would terrify even the hardiest of people; and if he did not, Almalexia would throw more and more bodies into an impossible war, until their people were all but decimated and the ashes were choked with blood. But what did that death amount to? Grief could not be avoided, merely deferred, and was Aem'uvus' madness a reason to lock him in eternal torment? If Molag Bal were to be allowed this concession, what then could he demand in the future? And, if he were to properly calculate, he would need some insight into what happened to mortal souls once fed to the Well. Obliteration? The Void? Some obscure and distant prison, where the light no longer lingered? He did not enjoy decisions without information.

"I…" He started, and then faltered. "I cannot." He imagined for a moment that Molag Bal's face grew irritated, though there was no noticeable change. "I must consult first with Vivec and Almalexia."

"Contact your pretenders," said the Prince, pointing a finger at him. "This offer will not stand forever, Seht."

He disappeared before Sotha Sil could respond, and once more the Clockwork God was alone in the throne room. He paused, staring at the space on which the Prince had stood, wondering if he could truly damn Aem'uvus. If he presented the case to Almalexia, she would grumble that Molag Bal had offered to help them, but jump at the chance to not only remove the Anguish, but lock him in torture. Vivec, perhaps, would be more subdued in his reaction, but he would not allow for Bal to take his son.

Sotha Sil sighed. There would be no easy answer; and he sensed that the outcome was out of his hands, regardless. He had determined his next course of action, at least.

He had to travel to the front lines.

* * *

The first foray had seen over a hundred dead, with equal measure Daedra and mortals, but the Daedra deaths meant little. In control of the Well the Anguish could endlessly resurrect them, especially as he could continue his raids across the northern coasts for more souls. For the Tribunal, a dead soldier was one more loss that hurtled them towards defeat.

Vivec and Almalexia had pushed far enough to claim a collection of Daedric ruins to the east, but their enemy seemed inexhaustible. Healers fashioned makeshift camps and tended to the injured, patching up holes and sending soldiers out once more, but it was not long before more serious wounds were dealt and their people started to perish.

Almalexia had healed those she could, but as the influx of dead and dying increased it became clear she and Vivec needed to discuss their strategy. The pair withdrew to a more secluded spot, where the screams were not as loud, the clatter of swords and hiss of Daedra not so jarring to the ear. The Warrior-Poet thought perhaps the place he stood was once a shrine of some sort, with its high, decayed arches and its scattered, ruined stone altars.

"If we lose any more soldiers, the Anguish can force his way to Seyda Neen," said Almalexia. "He'll gain a foothold on the city's doorstep. We cannot let this go on. We _need_ to drive them back."

"They follow Ihneroth's orders," he pointed out. "If we were to kill her, the rest would be scattered. We could cut them down and push on."

"She's surrounded by some of the most powerful mages I've ever seen. She may as well stand with the Anguish himself. Saraabi must have given them some idea of our tactics, for every move we've made so far has been squashed."

"What do you suggest, Ayem? Even if we defeat my children here, it will only be a matter of time before Aem'uvus resurrects them."

Vivec sighed and closed his eyes. He had allowed the stress of the events around him to influence his words and needed to centre himself. When he returned, he did so with a clearer mind.

"We cannot continue to throw our soldiers at them," he told her. "Aem'uvus will rely on our forces being depleted. We need to focus all of our strength in key areas – and we need to remove Ihneroth from the field."

"With what remains of our army, we cannot do both," Almalexia replied. Her eyes reminded him of their mortal days, when Indoril Nerevar would depart for a dangerous mission or some ill-advised venture. He thought, for one moment, that she appeared beautiful. But then her mouth moved, and he was thrown once more in the present. "Sotha Sil should be with us. If the Tribunal were whole we could—"

A burst of light to the side of them interrupted her. Vivec and Almalexia both readied their magic, hands sparking hot white and deep purple – and then retracted them when Sotha Sil stepped into the ruins. For once, the Mother of Morrowind felt joy in her heart when she gazed upon the Dwemer fixtures that framed his face.

"Seht," she breathed.

"Ayem," he replied. "I have some ne—"

"That will have to wait." The goddess waved her hand over to the decaying staircase which led to their camp. Sotha Sil saw just a hint of the carnage below, half-hidden by mushrooms, and saw the soldiers that sat just in sight of the staircase, nursing gaping wounds and fighting off the urge to scream.

"Is the Anguish here?" He questioned, for he could not imagine such quick devastation without him.

"No," she told him. "Ihneroth leads these armies, and Vivec believes we need to kill her before we can move forward."

"How fares the battle?"

"Our soldiers are holding their positions, but for every man we lose, we lose force," said Vivec.

"Hm. The Anguish will rely on our depleted army to overwhelm us. An intelligent move."

"Exactly," said Almalexia, "so we cannot hide in the shadows any longer. Come, Seht. We must stand united, or we have already lost."

The Clockwork God rolled his shoulders and bent his neck from side-to-side, as if limbering himself. It had been many years since he had seen battle.

"Very well," he said. "If it cannot be avoided. But once this battle is won, I must speak with you both. An…interesting question has come up."

"We are in the middle of a war, Seht."

"Yes. But there will be more wars, and so very, very few questions."

* * *

The ashlands were red and slick. Bodies laid scattered in the muck, torsos torn, limbs ripped, armour dented and all but shredded; and of the Daedra, corpses of repulsive proportions could be found, half-buried and stuck dozens of swords. When Sotha Sil's eyes roamed over the carnage, it fell upon Ul'acius, who stood crouched on top of one of his dead siblings and whipped his head from side-to-side, screeching with that unnaturally wide jaw. He did not care to admit how difficult their battle was, when he had been released in the Clockwork City. Not a powerful Daedra, but a nimble and slippery one, too quick to flee and drop down on unsuspecting prey.

Ihneroth stood further from the ruins, surrounded by four dark figures with hoods, too malformed to be man or Mer. She laughed at the devastation. Once she caught sight of him, flanked by Almalexia and Vivec, her smile wavered but did not fall. Instead she pointed, and the mages turned towards them.

There was a shock of energy not unlike the intake of a breath. A wave came barrelling towards them, and Sotha Sil raised his hand. The action was mimicked by his fellow gods. In a moment the wave had been redirected, and before they could leap out of the way, the four were dead.

Ihneroth looked to her side with anger, and then back at the Tribunal. She could not stand them stood on those ruins, proud and tall and in the way of her return to Oblivion.

"Aem'uvus will revive us!" She declared above the clamour of battle. "There are too many to fall!"

"Perhaps, Ihneroth," replied Sotha Sil as his hand sparked. "But all we need to fall is you."

Saraabi watched from his place on the battlefield. He had not seen a concentrated attack by the Tribunal before, and he felt as though he would never witness as cruel a death again. Ihneroth was set upon by magics too explosive, too bright and godlike to be replicated by a mere mortal, and for a moment all he could see was her dreadful form wreathed in light, hear her screams carried over the ashlands and above the noise of war. Once it was over – a few mere seconds that felt like a lifetime – he saw her fall, withered and burnt, but still moving.

She fixed him with a look as all around them, the Daedra realised that their commander, their _sister_, had been slain, and went into an unconcentrated frenzy. One of her arms reached out to him, and she mouthed one word repeatedly with the last dregs of her energy.

"Go."

He understood. Saraabi dropped his sword and started to speed towards the camp, terrified that his former gods would turn their attacks on him. Almalexia raised her hand to obliterate him as he ran into the distance, but Sotha Sil stopped her.

"What are you doing?!" She demanded. "He's running to warn the Anguish!"

"Yes," he replied, "and so, we must follow him."

"There are still Daedra—"

"Look at them, Ayem," said Vivec as he pointed to his frenzied children. He felt a terrible sadness for them and soon averted his eyes. "This is no longer a battle. Our men will deal with this quickly. Come. We have a more important fight ahead."

She thought to argue, but the resolution on both his and their companion's face made her hesitate. Soon, she sighed and nodded.

"Then we march on to the Anguish."

As the Tribunal delivered their final orders and divide what soldiers remained, Ul'acius' distant screaming rang over the body-strewn ashlands.

* * *

I asked the Anguish his greatest regret tonight. It's odd, but I speak with him often now, even just to argue with him; it's too exhausting to fight him all the time. His answer surprised me. He told me, "I never told Ihneroth and Stredricath how good it was to see them." I pressed further, but he would tell me no more. I feel such an intense pain when I prod, but not the physical sort; no, a pain in my heart, which I can tell you is not one I've experienced often.

We near the end, and I can feel his heart weigh heavily against what is to come. He weeps at times. I comfort him as best I'm able, but what is comfort to a Daedra? To a divine? Can I even begin to comprehend it?

If my mind has been corrupted somehow, I fear it's made me a more considerate person. He's laughing, now.


	20. Final Frontier

**Keeper Toliiril:**

Saraabi was not with the clearest of minds when he ran towards the camp. If he was, perhaps he would have wound his route across more dangerous lands, offered himself a chance to deplete the forces that pursued him. Perhaps this tale would come to a different conclusion, and we would stand under the reign of a different lord. Of course, if that had happened you and I would never have spoken; I would be long dead, and the Anguish would never have been forgotten.

Forgive me – these end parts are difficult, and I have not practiced the art of storytelling for many decades. Saraabi reached the camp in as little as twelve hours. He never slowed, and once he descended down to the tents he was confronted with more Daedra, each one more terrible than the last, as his lungs burned and his legs begged for relief. But he had not returned to check on the Anguish's progress. No, he had returned to warn him.

The spy weaved through the contorted shapes and exhausted Mer to the tunnel. In some few corners a number of Deyduhn Des residents sat in chains, awaiting their final fate as sacrifices. If Saraabi had paused, he would have noticed his face had been sprayed with blood, the front of his armour painted red with the pious, and the odd stares he received from his brothers-in-arms as he reached the Chamber's entrance. The guards looked at him, saluted him, but crossed their blades to bar his entry.

"Lord Anguish prepares another resurrection," said the first; Adoesu, the man who had questioned him when he had come to the camp as Vivec's spy. "He won't want to be disturbed."

"Ihneroth has been killed," Saraabi replied. If he could see past the steel helms, he imagined he would have seen more shock on their face than that which came to their eyes. "She told me to warn him with her dying breath. The Tribunal are coming."

"We _lost_ that battle? How?"

"We relied too heavily on the idea that Sotha Sil and Vivec wouldn't enter the fight themselves," Saraabi told them. "But the Three are united. The Anguish must know, now, or all is lost."

There was a pause, and the spy felt an increasing desperation rise up in his throat. When Adoesu and his companion finally raised their blades to permit him entrance, he almost thanked them. Instead, Saraabi nodded and rushed down towards the Chambers, into the brilliant heat of the Well and the sobs of the innocent, where the Anguish was to make his stand.

* * *

The camp was small, but clustered with creatures that shared similar physiognomies to those they had faced in the ashlands. The Tribunal ordered their forces to hide behind the rocks and boulders that dotted the hills, and a number of them started to set up small collections of beds for their anticipated wounded.

Vivec stared down at his children, so vile and corrupt, contending for space with the Ashlanders. These were new resurrections; their strength had not been fully recovered and their exhaustion was clear in their movements and disinterest of the Mer-based food-source around them. Or perhaps Aem'uvus had ordered them not to devour his faithful? It was not a far leap, but the Warrior-Poet could not imagine how his mad son viewed the people under his thrall.

The soldiers started to prepare themselves for another battle. There had been no rest, and many relied on sheer adrenaline to see them through the push to the Well. Sotha Sil calculated that most, if not all of them would die; but he could not tell if their sacrifice would be in vain. That uncertainty both disturbed and fascinated him.

"Saraabi must pay for his betrayal," Almalexia said as quiet activity continued all around them. "If we find him in the camp, I will deal with him – personally. We cannot suffer turncoats."

Sotha Sil thought he saw a flash of madness in her eyes, and he pondered on the fact she appeared more concerned with the 'turncoat' spy than the immediate threat that wandered idly before them. Perhaps it was the principle of the matter; the Daedra did not claim allegiance to them, but Saraabi had. In Almalexia's mind, the greater sin rested with he who betrayed them, not the enemy that attacked them. He wondered if that was a logical conclusion.

"There will be time enough for that," said Vivec. "First, we need to gain control of this camp."

"Gain control? It's the enemy's base. We slaughter everyone inside and press on into the Well."

"Do you see the people in chains, Ayem?" He asked. "There are innocents in there; perhaps even some of the survivors of Deyduhn Des."

"It is a sacrifice we have to make for Vvardenfell," she replied, and then she turned to the soldiers who still hurried to set up their encampment. "Armigers, Ordinators! Our final push is here. This war, though brief and bloody, will set a precedent for all enemies of the Tribunal. Destroy the Anguish's followers, and we will cleanse him from the land."

Vivec opened his mouth to protest, but her declaration had already taken root in their soldiers' hearts. Each one readied their weapons and crouched into position behind the rocks, waiting for the moment to strike, waiting for Almalexia's command to wipe out the threat to their beloved divines. Is it not odd, that Mer and man are so willing to sacrifice themselves for a greater good? I have made many a sacrifice to carry the Anguish's tale, but that decision was not mine. I could not imagine forfeiting my own life without evidence that that forfeit would lead to a better world. But perhaps that's the influence of his—Hold on, Almver almost made that mistake as well. That part is for Trilban to tell.

"Wait, Ayem," murmured Seht to his companion, "I still have a question for you, before we enter the Well."

"There is no time for questions," she chastised him. "Enough of this pointless debate, Seht – you and Vehk have made enough of a mess of this as it is. Now is the time for action. Soldiers, we fight! Go and deliver our divine will! End the threat; save our people! Attack!"

Once more the soldiers descended into the fray, shouting war cries that would soon fuse with the screech of Daedra and dying mortals. Sotha Sil and Vivec watched as men fell, blood pooling underneath them, and the sinful children started to collapse under the brunt of swords and spells to cleave a path to the Well. If they had turned to her, they would have noticed the smile on Almalexia's face.

* * *

Here we come – the conclusion. The final chapter of the Anguish's tale. I admit, I feel…depressed. As if this story has woven itself into my heart and become a part of me. Perhaps that's not so far from the truth; he has been with me now for a number of months, and has even taken over my hand to correct mistakes I've made over the course of this novel.

My hope is that the Mage's Guild can free the tale of its curse, but that might be an idle dream. I'm not even sure now that I would want for him to vanish forever. Where would he go? Would he simply cease to exist? Would he be transported to a part of Oblivion, where he might start anew in a different skin? I should not feel sorry for him – look at all of the misery and tragedy he caused – but I do. I do, with every fibre of my being. But I cannot allow him to be let loose across the world; not even if I feel terribly for his plight.

It has been a painful journey, and soon, it comes to an end. Perhaps before it does I shall take a trip to the water and buy a boat, so he can at least see my little corner of the world, feel the spray against my skin and smell the air for the last time. We can share that experience together.

He implores me to reconsider. I have put wards in place so he cannot overtake me without great efforts in his diminished state. My mind is made up. I am sorry, Aem'uvus. The end is the end.


	21. All That Remains

**Keeper Trilban:**

So, you have come. I imagine that the Anguish will bury himself inside of you, as he has done to us ever since that fateful day. To have strength enough to keep him contained, you will have to be certain of yourself, certain in your skills as a mage and never falter in your battle against him. I am sorry, Dirith. Meraala, the first of our order, should have warned you, but she keeps such secrets close to her heart, hidden from normal mortals' eyes.

There is enough melancholy in the conclusion of this tale; we need not dwell on more. Please, eat, drink, and seat yourself upon my softest chair. I am here for you, Dirith. I cannot stop what is to come, but I can provide a little comfort before it does. I am sorry. I am so, so sorry.

The Tribunal's descent into the Chambers was not silent, for behind them came the screams of their dying soldiers, the screeches of exhausted Daedra that infiltrated and settled in Vivec's heart. It was the sort of sound that invades one's dreams and darkens their days. Traumatic, perhaps, to those who were not divine. Sotha Sil focused himself on their surroundings in a bid to ignore it.

The tunnel was smooth in places; evidence that Aem'uvus had meant to build a more formal entrance to his most beloved artefact. There were lanterns scattered here and there, their glass cases shattered and broken, their lights snuffed out and cold. If not for Almalexia's mage-light and their combined holy auras, he doubted he would be able to see beyond his own nose. The support beams were low enough that he had to duck beneath them. Their footsteps against the stone made a sound as hollow as he imagined their victory would feel.

An incredible heat came from deeper in the tunnel, and it was towards this that the Three walked. Vivec steeled himself, and he wished for a moment that he at least had the comfort of Muarta, that spear which had started this terrible tale. But he would put an end to his son's threat even without it; and when he was alone, he would weep for lost Aem'uvus once more. He did not even consider that he would write a sermon of his death. He was not the Ruddy Man, nor was he Moon-Axle; he was a grief-stricken child, confused and alone, driven to madness over the loss of his siblings. He could not be shown mercy, but there was tragedy in that.

The Three soon came to the Chamber's true entrance, and Almalexia paused. The heat was near unbearable, to the point that even Sotha Sil felt the urge to wipe his forehead with his sleeve. Her companions came to a slow halt beside her, but she did not look at them. Her eyes were fixed ahead, on her glorious victory.

"No matter what happens," she said, "the Anguish must die."

There was no room for argument in her voice, nor did they imagine she expected one. She continued to be still for a moment more, her feet hovering and her skin radiant in the darkness, before she started forward.

Sotha Sil and Vivec looked at each other. The Warrior-Poet could see his own sadness reflected in his brother's eyes. But the flows of time did not stop, and there was a war that raged above them that would only end with Aem'uvus' death.

"To the end, brother," said Sotha Sil. Vivec nodded, and the pair went.

* * *

Aem'uvus was in the Well, his feet on the rim of the largest vat with the children at his side, a hand clasped around his gem-topped staff. Saraabi stood with him, cradling Stredricath in his arms, and their eyes were fixed on the stairs as the Three slowly came down towards them.

"Get behind me," the creature ordered his children. They hurried to obey while he half-crouched to the floor, holding his staff aloft while his free hand reached towards the intruders. His eyes were hard and cold, but frightened, in their way. It occurred to Vivec that this was the first he had seen him in person since he had come to the temple, and his restored beauty was enough to cause a quiver in his bottom lip. He urged it to calm as he and his companions came to another slow halt halfway down the stairs.

"Anguish," said Almalexia. Her voice sounded low underneath the domed ceiling. Sotha Sil could feel the queer energy that radiated from the Chambers, heard, even, the dead whispers of ancient secrets that had buried themselves in the walls. It seemed to wind itself around Aem'uvus as a focal point, and he realised that the Well had as much commandeered him as he had it.

"You have murdered countless of my siblings," he accused. "My beautiful sister Ihneroth is slain. But she will rise again. They will all rise again. I will resurrect them over and over, until your armies lie crushed and broken beneath our weight. You cannot stop me. The Tribunal is a farce that must die."

His claims belied the tremble in his fingers and his defensiveness of the children behind him. Vivec saw their wide, terrified eyes, saw them move closer to their protector, and he felt another tug at his heart. In their own way, they loved him. It was written all across their faces, like so many words in a book. Aem'uvus' care for them was that of a mother; perhaps an attempt at redemption, almost, for the actions of his own.

"End this, my son," he pleaded. "There is no victory in so much death."

"Perhaps if you had thought that before you slaughtered us, I wouldn't stand here now."

Saraabi moved, cradling Stredricath tightly to his chest, and it caught Almalexia's attention. She raised her hand before her companions could stop her. In a moment, a chain had formed around the spy's waist. He hurtled towards them at such a speed, he almost lost his grip on the Seer he held so dearly.

She clutched him by his throat, his feet dangling high above the ground as the Mother of Morrowind stared at his fire-lit face. He had once revered her, but the sight of her cold eyes made his heart shrivel and thump against his chest. With her free hand she prised Stredricath from him. The Seer was passed to Vivec, uttering a pig-like squeal that at once repulsed and upset him. Aem'uvus stepped forward and stopped just shy of the vat. His expression was one of surprise, mixed with fear and anger. He stood impotently as Almalexia held his trusted servant aloft in the air, his hands clutching at her wrist as he fought for breath. If the creature made a move, he feared Stredricath and Saraabi would be caught in the crossfire.

"Let them go!" He demanded, but his words went unheeded. The Mother of Morrowind drew the spy closer to her face, and he desperately fought against her vice-like grip.

"Traitor," she half-whispered to him. "You were one of Vivec's favoured servants. Honoured. Loved. Today, you are nothing. You will be remembered as nothing."

"Mercy…" He choked. "M-Mercy…"

Almalexia slipped a small dagger from her belt. Sotha Sil watched as she drew him ever closer to her face, watched the cruelty that clouded her eyes when she saw the face of their betrayer, and he hardly recognised her.

"No mercy for dead Mer," she whispered, and plunged the dagger in his stomach. Saraabi did not even have the breath to scream. When Almalexia dropped him to the floor, he curled up and stared at the hilt protruding from his stomach, the blood that coated his fingers and filled his mouth. He let out a cough as he felt his energy flowing out of him. It was the end, and the end was a cold, numbing embrace of powers beyond him.

"Saraabi!" Aem'uvus shouted. He reached out as though he could touch him, then fixed his furious gaze on the Three. His staff remained at his side, but Sotha Sil observed the restraint it required on his part not to further endanger his brother. "You murdered my servant! You murdered my _friend_!"

Almalexia turned from the dying Mer in front of her. She met Aem'uvus gaze, even smiled at him, before she leant down and pulled the blade from Saraabi's stomach. His last breath was a drawn-out whimper of pain, and then he was gone.

The Mother of Morrowind sauntered to Vivec's side. Despite himself, he was cradling his son, trying to calm the Seer's squeals as though he could somehow be a mother to him. Aem'uvus saw her lift her blade before the Warrior-Poet did. Before even Sotha Sil could stop her, Almalexia brought it down into Stredricath's malformed chest, right in the middle of Vivec's arms, and twisted it as his screams reached a horrifying crescendo. He floundered, his stumped arms flailing, while his mother's mouth fell open in horror and Sotha Sil stood, stunned, behind them.

"_No_!"

A burst of light erupted from Aem'uvus. He cast a spell so strong and so explosive, Almalexia met it only at the last second. His hot red flames battled against her cool white light, and it fought for dominance as she attempted to push it back. Aem'uvus stepped forward, his face twisted in grief and fury. So awesome was the power he channelled, the goddess lowered herself to one knee as though to anchor herself against it.

"My _brother_! My _sister_! My _friend_!" He shouted. "Murderers! None of you will survive! None of this will matter when I sit on the throne of Coldharbour! I will rip out your souls and—"

The Chamber suddenly rumbled, and Sotha Sil could feel that it was not the natural throes of Red Mountain. It was so sudden and powerful that their spells fell apart, the ground shaking beneath their feet as each person tried to stay on them. Sotha Sil held out his arms and Almalexia crouched lower to the floor, Vivec clinging to the now-limp body of his son while Aem'uvus buried his staff into the rock and used it as a support. The children rushed towards him, stumbling, to clutch at the cloak that meant safety.

"Brat!" Came a voice, that familiar, terrible voice, as the tremors started to ebb. All of them looked up to a sudden cold light, and at the far end of the Chamber stood an enormous, ghostly pale projection of the Prince of Domination, his mace at his side and his tail flicking back and forth.

Aem'uvus felt his heart stop. His sire stared down and pointed at him, and despite the foreignness of his face he saw fury scrawled across it.

"Insolent, insignificant flea!" Molag Bal shouted as he raised his mace. "I will not suffer such disrespect from my own whelp. The throne of Coldharbour is mine. Eternity will strain under the sound of your screams!"

The Prince started to move his hands, and the lava inside the vats trembled and began to rise. Aem'uvus' eyes widened and he turned to the children clutching onto his cloak and each other, prising their hands from him as he shouted, "Run!"

The lava rose out of the vat as the children tried to flee. It came at him as a cyclone, and in a split second Aem'uvus reached out and roared a spell that formed a protective shield around them. The cyclone struck him, splashing out against his shield, while the children within it trembled and covered their ears against the sound of his cries.

Vivec's entire body trembled as the scene played out in front of him. Sotha Sil was frozen in place, as if a single movement would shatter the entire world and sweep them all out of existence. Beside them, Almalexia, once enraged and vengeful, fell silent in shock. The only sound was that of the cyclone and Aem'uvus' screams, his form twisting and writhing as a black shadow against the flames.

Once Molag Bal had deemed it enough, the lava fell away into impotent puddles on the floor, revealing Aem'uvus once again charred and destroyed, his skin molten and shedding off of him in large chunks. He stumbled, muttering words unintelligibly, and Vivec lowered dead Stredricath gently to the ground while he watched. The creature fell to the floor, but still he moved forward, spurred on by a single thought.

"M-M-M…" He stammered and looked at the Warrior-Poet. "M-M-Mother…"

Vivec ran towards him. He bundled him up, cradled his face against his chest, and wept freely at the husk that was his son, almost falling apart in his arms. He would not deny him the small comfort of a mother's love in his final moments. He would not leave him, in pain and suffering, as he had before.

"Aem'uvus," he whispered into his charred ear. "Aem'uvus, my beautiful, foolish son." The creature buried his face closer to him, and for a moment, Vivec felt his love.

Then he felt a cold, sharp stab of pain in his chest.

He looked down to see a steel knife embedded in his skin, saw the blood that flowed from his heart and down onto Aem'uvus' molten face. The creature's hand was clutched around the hilt, and when he looked into his eyes he saw such a hot, burning hate that his actual wounds felt almost negligible.

"_Bleed._" He murmured softly, with so much venom that the word became poison. Aem'uvus turned his head to the children cowering beside them and reached out his hand. Empowered by his mother's divine blood, he muttered a profane and never-again heard spell that pierced Vivec's heart more than the blade.

The gods watched as his essence left his mouth and split into small, beautiful balls of light. The lights went to the children and, for a split second, their little bodies glowed a brilliant white in the Chambers' fire. It seemed as though they were touched by divinity. Each one raised their chins as though to accept the light within them, before it finally dissipated and they appeared as children once more.

"You will be _mine_, whelp!" Shouted Molag Bal, and then he was gone.

Aem'uvus' eyes closed against his mother's chest. Without his essence to sustain him, he let out one final, shaky breath, and his body started to fall away into dust. Vivec clutched at him still, even as he lost his shape, weeping over the crumbled ashes of his son. Behind him his fellow gods came to stand, quiet and, on Seht's part, observant of his loss.

"He's gone," Vivec sobbed as Sotha Sil put his hand against his back. Almalexia looked at the children stood around them and raised her hand.

"_No_!"

Sotha Sil's spell stopped her before she could obliterate them. She glared at him, her eyes alight with anger, but he met her with a firmness and resolution that she could not argue with.

"Enough," he murmured as he knelt beside his brother. "It is over."

And to the sound of Vivec's tears and Sotha Sil's comforts, that is all that remains.

* * *

I remember that day, as clearly as I do the moment you sat in front of me. I and the other children, the twenty-one Keepers of Truth – or Vengeance, as one might argue – were imbued with the Anguish's soul so that he might escape torment, and Sotha Sil is the only reason we live today. He theorised that if we were to die, he would be released to wreak havoc, perhaps to possess more unsuspecting and powerful Mer. I'm not certain of the truth of it, but Almalexia agreed on the condition that no one, not even the wisest of their priests, would record the Anguish in their histories. He was to be forgotten, an insignificant stain on an otherwise beautiful tapestry, and so it has been since that day. We were split apart, put in these distant corners of Morrowind, to live out our lives in near-total seclusion. Many years have now passed, and no one even remembers the name 'Aem'uvus'.

That is the whole of it. I am sorry once again, Dirith. There are few comforts for what is to come, but rest assured, your pain will be nil compared to the Anguish's. Please, enjoy my company a while longer. I have had his voice in my head ever since he died, and I fear so will you. Do not sneer, my friend. You are not as powerful as you believe.

* * *

That is it, then. The end of the tale, and my own end as well. I have written out instructions for this novel to be delivered, unopened, to the Mage's Guild, and warnings for my more disgruntled servants that any tampering of my body will result in a haunting. I have taken the Jarrin Root with my afternoon tea. It won't be long now.

I did sneer at Trilban, and I thought myself invincible, but now I see how tightly this tale winds itself, how easily one can fall victim to the grief of the Anguish's plight and not see the lunacy that he wanted to unleash upon Vvardenfell. I comfort him even now, as he is sad that I will die soon. He tells me he quite liked my company. He even thanks me for the day we spent on the rowboat, because he loved the water, the peace and quiet. I will miss him, wherever I go.

I do implore you, reader; remember their names. Milara. Sontel. Saraabi. Stredricath. Ihneroth. Aem'uvus. Perhaps each one was terrible to a certain degree, but aren't we all? I send this to the Guild so that none of my fellow Telvanni can attempt harness the power for themselves. I cannot trust them to view this objectively, and not in the light of their own greed. Does that make them terrible? Of course. But none of them will be forgotten, erased from history, their pain and torments unheeded as the years march on. Perhaps this one little act on my part - to put Aem'uvus to paper - is enough to heal just a small fragment of his soul.

I suppose it's time to close this chapter off. I, Dirith Nelelor of House Telvanni, have written out this tale so that one day, a better mage can dispel its curse and send the Anguish on. He deserves peace. He deserves to rest in comfort, after all he's been through. This is the tale that caused a god's heart to bleed, and I, like the Keepers, bleed with him.

And for whoever reads this, I am so sorry—

The Anguish has set his eyes on you.


	22. Afterword

**Addendum of Sotha Sil:**

Now that all of the pieces have been told and the Telvanni has set them out in this neat packet, it is time that I, Sotha Sil, tell you of what happened after the Anguish imprisoned himself. It is important that a tale end at the end, not with a fragment missing, as it were.

I returned to my city soon after it became clear that Vivec would survive the knife wound his son had imparted on him. I took with me the Well of Ash, which now rests dead and safe in Clockwork. It was an odd sight, at first; almost unfamiliar, for I was confronted for the first time in centuries with uncertainty. Aem'uvus was an error, a sequence that should not have been, and he ever shifted between forms that were both perverse and beautiful; the child he was, the Daedra he was sired by, the madness that consumed him, the brother he could have been – the student I coveted. After all of those events transpired, I felt in my heart that had I been able to restore him, Aem'uvus would have been the pupil I would be most inspired by; the slate on which my thoughts and memories could be improved upon. In finding the Well of Ash, he demonstrated a skill for research on even the most obscure subjects, and his mastery of magicka placed him well above my Apostles. In the future, once I discover a way to preserve his teetered sanity, I will find those Keepers and take his essence from them. Their bodies will perish without him, but Aem'uvus is a student too promising to remain in perpetual fragmentation.

Perhaps it is difficult to comprehend for some that I would admit this in writing. I am but a mirror; a canvas on which people paint their hopes and resentments. To most who read Dirith's work, this will not appear. It is for those who can understand that Aem'uvus was not a monster because he made the choice to be so, but because he was the result of actions made long before he came to exist. But, alas – along with what happened.

The Apostles welcomed me, but I was in a melancholy mood. Perhaps some of them even noticed. I went to the Planisphere and told the Astronomer that I needed time with my thoughts. He left, and once alone amongst my designs I realised that I missed the uncertainty the son of Vivec had shrouded himself in. He spun a tale that was true but existed elsewhere, and so my calculations were no longer relevant. Where he stepped the planes did not react; indeed, it was as if he were a spectre, a figment of our imaginations, a joint delusion. But he defied analysis even in his final moments. I had _felt_ the love with which he held his mother, could sense that he wished for his pain to end and be made whole in Vivec's arms – but in the same breath he had pierced that knife into his heart. Did he do it because he still felt that residual hate over the death of his siblings? Did he hide his true intentions from me? Did some other part of him exist, too broken to see sunlight?

I then did what I had promised Almalexia I would not do. I committed Aem'uvus to memory. His final moments are stars in the Planisphere, forever to have happened, locked away where no one might trouble him. His maniacal laughter is wound up in soft sparkles against an eternal night sky. The love he had for Vivec exists, and the hatred in his heart burns on.

I see you are confused. I am sorry for that. To appreciate the Anguish's part in the tale behind us, one must first understand the part he played before that tale came to be. I will tell you, now, who he was, who Aem'uvus was, as I have learnt from Vivec and many months of thought.

Aem'uvus, as we are aware, was the most beautiful child of Vehk and Molag Bal. He was also the most unusual in his desire for place. He was not quite Daedra, nor was he a demiprince. He was not as mangled nor as deformed as his siblings; he was not as divine as his mother nor as wicked and powerful as his father. He relied on manipulation, on the foolishness of others, to sate his Daedric appetites. But did this make him more Daedric or more divine in being? Was he a perfect blend of both? Is there a perfect blend of those two opposing forces? Were he and his siblings the prelude of a new race, one even more varied than mortals?

The fire that disfigured him also set him in a definitive existence. He was the Disfigured Son, the Heir of the Dunmer, the Betrayed-Skin – the Anguish. That which he rallied against gave him a sense of belonging. He finally had a part to play – that of he-who-seeks to correct injustice. At the same time, he was both destroyed and created by Vivec's act of betrayal. He had purpose, impetus, and yet without the condemnation of the first act he would not exist as we have come to know him. In truth, Aem'uvus could not have been without the Anguish, nor could the Anguish have been without Aem'uvus. He embodied the perfect paradox; that which is, but is not, and yet rejects both.

That is why, someday, I will restore him as best I am able. Vivec is my brother, and I feel that Aem'uvus has not yet played the end of his part in our lives. Ah, there it is. The uncertainty. I have missed this small luxury.

But I fear that one aspect of the Mad Child has been overlooked, and it is perhaps his most important quality. I refer now to his nature; or, rather, his _natures._ Aem'uvus demonstrated an ability I have never seen before – the ability to shift himself into roles, i.e. the leader, the tyrant, the wiseman, the assailant, the protector; but he did not merely masquerade as these things. He embodied them in their entirety. To Almalexia he was deviant rebellion, and to the children he was protector and, yes, even saviour. Though perhaps we have seen in our lifetimes creatures who do similar things (an important case to highlight would be Count Verandis and his vampire safe haven in Rivenspire), man, Mer, and Daedra should be semi-static, the latter more so than all else, and the fight to overcome their nature should almost overwhelm them. Aem'uvus was fluid. He is closer than his mother could ever be to achieving true flexibility. I have two theories as to why this might be: the first, that his existence as both Aem'uvus and the Anguish had split his mind, such that he could discard and pick up new guises as easily as one could an outfit: and the second, that the loss of his siblings and Vivec's betrayal had made it impossible for him to assume a static form. Not unlike a child's formative years, wherein the introduction of trauma could bend and snap one's personage, Aem'uvus' loss condemned (or perhaps granted) him with the ability to assume multiple roles and fully embody them, for his own role was based upon paradox. This is, of course, conjecture on my part. It will require further study, which can only be conducted once I have restored the Mad Child.

Why do I add this to Dirith's tale? There is a simple answer. I do not agree with Almalexia that Aem'uvus should be forgotten. She worries that the tale's true heartbreak would show us as susceptible to mortal folly. She clings to her divinity so tightly that it will squeeze through her fingers. I suspect she will not be pleased when I restore Aem'uvus and raise him in the Clockwork City. But there is much to learn from him, and I feel he deserves a second chance – if not for the fact that his actions were driven by grief, then because he still occupies a place within Vivec's heart. In time, I will even come to love him. I do not know yet if this will prove a good thing, or if it will blind me to what he could prove to be.

I speak now not to you, reader, but to the Anguish that reads through your eyes. Allow me this indulgence, for I cannot assure him otherwise.

Anguish – Aem'uvus. I sense that there is more for you, that this is not where your tale ends nor where our paths diverge forever. I do not know how many years will pass before this message reaches you, or even if it will reach you at all, but time has not dampened my resolve. Be comforted that I will come for you, and I will nurture you to full health and vitality. I will keep you from the forces that wish you harm, as powerful as those forces are. Yours is too rare an existence to allow to wither in this state of semi-permeance.

Rest, Mad Child, and collect yourself. Once I have a way to restore your sanity – and I believe I am close – I will protect you until you no longer need me. I will be a mentor, a friend – even a father, if that is what you require of me. Someday not so far in the future, the Clockwork City will be your home.

And, reader – do not seek out the wisdom of Almalexia for your ailment. She will not forgive; and she has certainly not forgotten.


End file.
